


Things You Should Know

by cheshirecat101, EyeofMazikeen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, First Dates, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 320,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecat101/pseuds/cheshirecat101, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeofMazikeen/pseuds/EyeofMazikeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes have in common, other than one certain consulting detective?  A great deal of exhaustion.  When they decide to go out for a simple pint to try and get each other away from the pressures of their respective jobs, they unknowingly set themselves right in the midst of various plots and schemes.  Complicated pasts, surly younger brothers, and meddlesome PAs all seem to have plans for the pair that don't involve Mycroft and Greg just getting to know each other.  But really, how bad could one night out possibly end up?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the direct result of an RP turned co-writing experience with the lovely CheshireCat101. She is my Mystrade soulmate, and one of the most decent and wonderful human beings I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. And she's a badass editor to boot! Please, if you haven't checked out her works already I highly recommend that you do so.
> 
> As this fic is quite lengthy, we will be updating tags as well as adding warnings with each chapter we post to avoid spoilers. Please, if you are planning on subscribing note the warnings at the beginning of each chapter. We'd hate to unintentionally trigger someone. If you see a warning tag that you feel should be added to our fic, please send me a PM and I will make sure it is added to the document tags as well as the appropriate chapters.
> 
> Warnings for Chapter 1 Include: Mentions of Drug Use, mentions of physical violence

_This is ridiculous.  I'm being ridiculous._

It must have been the fiftieth time he repeated the phrase to himself during the ride.  One time for each flutter of his heart.  He was a goddamn Yarder, for fuck's sake.  He'd been in more dangerous situations than this.  By far.  He'd given people terrible news, he'd seen things that no man should rightly have to see again and again.  And yet.

_This is ridiculous._

He nervously thumbed over his phone, going through his text message history.  For all their dissimilarities, the Holmes brothers shared a propensity for texting.  Sherlock because it was impersonal.  Lestrade suspected Mycroft simply did it because it was efficient.

**Mycroft.  We need to talk.**

Half an hour with no reply.

**I know that you know about the drugs bust on your brother's flat.**

Another forty minutes, and still nothing.

**There's something we should discuss.  In person.  Or at least on the phone.  Call me.  Please?**

Fifteen more minutes and Lestrade's patience had damn near reached its end.  It had been a long, unpleasant day.

**Goddamnit Mycroft.  I've been looking after him for you for almost two years now.  The least you could do is take an interest when something actually happens.**

And finally, the reply.

**Diogenes Club.  Ten thirty.**

He started telling himself the whole situation was ridiculous when he went to leave his efficiency flat and found one of those monstrous black town cars waiting for him.

_I'm being bloody ridiculous._

No matter how often he repeated it, the mantra did nothing to calm his rapidly beating pulse.  Finally, the car stopped.  The driver obligingly got out, and opened the car door for him.

"Detective Lestrade, sir?  Welcome to the Diogenes Club."  The tall, well tailored man indicated that he should follow, so the DI did just that, taking a moment to shift uncomfortably and readjust his suit coat.  He knew he'd be woefully underdressed compared to the other patrons, but that wasn't the reason for the... butterflies in his stomach?  Christ.  He was rapidly becoming a sixteen year old schoolgirl.  That was the only possible explanation.

At the entrance, his escort stopped him before opening the rather ornately carved oak door.  The young man cleared his throat expectantly, and Lestrade leveled him with his best "get on with it" look.

"Sir.  A few guidelines for the club, if you please?  Refrain from talking, to yourself or other patrons, unless you are in one of the closed suites.  Eye contact and a nod is an acceptable form of acknowledgement should you know someone, but please do not approach. As a guest, if someone wants to speak to you they'll send someone 'round with an invitation to their suite."

"A bit stuffy, isn't it?"  The younger man met his query with a dry, hard stare.  "Right then."

"I don't expect you'll need a guide through the amenities as Mr. Holmes has given us specific instructions to take you up to his suite upon your arrival.  So if you would, please follow me sir."  And with that, the doors pushed open and Lestrade trailed his escort up through a labyrinthine progression of rooms and hallways before arriving at a rather plain (at least compared to the rest of the decor Greg had seen) door.  There was no nameplate, but one didn't have to be a Holmes to deduce whose suite it was.

His escort knocked twice, then opened the door for him (just a crack, mind you), before turning and walking away. Greg's heart made a sudden relocation from it's normal home in his chest; leaping up to his throat.

_I'm. Being. Ridiculous._

When his mantra did nothing to shove his organ back to it's rightful location Greg simply swallowed, and poked his head in the door.

"Mycroft?  May.. May I come in?

_I'm being ridiculous._

\---------------

Of course he'd already known about the drugs bust. His eyes were everywhere, especially on his brother, so he knew the minute it happened. He'd known about it since the process to approve it had started in Scotland Yard, the first form filed, the first thought in someone's mind and on the edge of their lips. So when Gregory Lestrade texted him, he wasn't actually surprised.

It still hurt. His brother, once again going off into dangerous territory. Mycroft understood the dangers inherent in trying to satisfy an overactive mind, knew about the craving for something more exciting just beneath the surface of consciousness. He, however, had long since developed the immunity to it that Sherlock often lacked. The cold exterior usually helped with that.

He didn't want to respond to the texts, to any of them, really, because responding would mean he'd have to face his brother's problem once again when there never seemed to be a solution in sight. A ship could only take on so much water before it sank. But the last plea. The last attempt on Greg's part. Christ, he could hear exactly how it would sound coming from him and he had to respond, finally. A time and place. A promise to at least listen, if not interfere.He'd meant to get more work done while waiting at the Diogenes Club, he really had, but instead he ended up mostly shuffling his papers around, drinking excessive amounts of tea, and rereading the texts on his mobile. He hated the escalation that they presented. Each text leading up into the next, more adamant than the last, and for a second he felt guilty. Just a second. Then that silvery head poked its way around his door and his guilt was gone again, replaced by the brisk, cold, protective exterior.

"Inspector Lestrade. Gregory. Yes, please, close the door after you," he said, and turned back to the papers in front of him on the desk, nonchalance feigned as easily as always.

\---------------

"Hey.  So, uh, thanks for agreeing to see me."  When Mycroft didn't look up from his papers, Greg simply settled down into one of the chairs across the desk from the man.  He looked... like Mycroft.  Impeccable.  But there was something, just a little something in the set of his shoulders that made Lestrade... uncomfortable?  No.  Not uncomfortable.  Sad.  Those were the shoulders of a man who was a straw or two from... something.  Something not good.  At least part of what he had to offer The British Government was good news.

"It's um.  Well.  Here's the thing.  The drugs bust.  It was a fake.  Mostly."  God.  Complete sentences, Lestrade!  They exist for a reason.

"Sherlock's working a case.  As a civilian, not with the Yard.  Lord knows I tried to stop him but..."  Unconsciously, Greg brought one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.  "Well, you know how he is."

"There's a drug syndicate that's suspected of having strong connections to a human trafficking operation.  Sherlock decided to, um, well, begin patronizing it.  So to speak.  He makes purchases, but doesn't use them.  His track-marks are real... but as far as I can tell he's just been injecting saline solution.  I've been getting him tested regularly.  Well, I should say I've been fighting tooth and nail to get him tested regularly, and have largely succeeded."  Greg chuckled at the memory.  Buying drugs, whether to use them or not, was still an arrestable offence.  It was a good threat.  Sherlock in jail.  He'd tear the bloody place down if he didn't die of boredom first.

"But word gets around, right?  Folks knew he started buying again.  So we had to process the bust, given his history and all.  Thing is, he hadn't disposed of his purchases.  He didn't use them, but he didn't get rid of them either.  I don't know exactly what that means.  But I thought you should know."

"There's one more thing.  He's.  Well.  Shit.  He's gonna kill me if he ever finds out I'm telling you this, but I can't not.  He's my friend. You're my friend.  And... well...  I trust you, even when he doesn't.  Especially when he doesn't."

"He's hurt, Mycroft.  He did an exceptional job of hiding it, but I've worked enough domestics to know a good beating when I see one.  Someone roughed him up good.  I don't know if it was because of his smart mouth, or if someone tried to snatch him for the trafficking ring or what.  But it's not good.  He's in over his head.  And I'm stuck.  I could bust the drug scene, the whole operation now and arrest the lot of them.  But that means our real target would retreat.  It might take us months to find a connection to the traffickers again."

"I know what my job dictates I should do.  He's not an officer; he's a civilian.  I should let things run their course.  Leave him to work things out in his own way.  But..."  Greg winced, the next words paining him some.  "He's your brother, and you care about him no matter how big of a prat he's being."

"He needs help Mycroft.  I need help."  The DI slumped in his chair, exhaustion finally wringing the last of the tension from his taut muscles.

"Fuck.  Just.   _Fuck_.  What should I do?"

\---------------

He'd meant to keep working (or pretending to work) while Greg talked, but each word out of the detective's mouth seemed so laced with exhaustion that Mycroft found himself unable to keep it up, his eyes lifting of their own volition to study him.

Greg looked tired. He always looked tired, a little grizzled, graying around the edges. Worn out. Always, it seemed, on the edge of a complete breakdown brought on by his work and the sheer stress of living. It didn't help that he had to look after Sherlock, Lord knows Mycroft knew how stressful that alone was, and Greg already had enough to worry about without having to keep the younger man out of the serious trouble he seemed so eager to get into. This week it was drugs and beatings, next week it would be something else. And while Mycroft could observe everything from afar, protected by cameras and cold computer screens, Lestrade had to deal with it firsthand, up close and personal.

He honestly felt sorry for dragging the man into this.

When Greg finished speaking he put down his pen, steepling his fingers together and resting them against his bottom lip, considering the situation. "Sherlock knows what he's getting himself into," he said after a minute of contemplative silence. "And if he doesn't, I do. I have been informed of his situation and am currently monitoring it." As always. He paused a moment, considering Greg's features as he weighed his next words. "Let him continue, for the time being. He's not in serious danger as of yet. As for the drugs, however, if they haven't already been removed from his flat, please remove them immediately. The last thing he needs is an excuse."

His eyes returned to his papers abruptly, his fingers lacing together. "As for you, please continue to keep me informed. I appreciate your concern, Gregory--" a slight hesitation over using his first name, the informality of it was nearly painful "--but this is not your situation to deal with. You have other matters to attend to, more pressing ones, I'm assured, so please, attend to those first and continue in your professional duties." He paused again, gently knocking his laced hands against his lower lip and chin, then stopped and looked again at Greg. "How are you handling everything, Gregory?" It was a more personal question than he usually felt comfortable asking, but there was something in Greg's demeanor that made him ask, something that made his brow furrow slightly in the concern he usually only showed for Sherlock.

\---------------

At first, Lestrade couldn't believe his ears.  Mycroft knew?  Of course he knew.  The bloody man knew everything.  But the response wasn't what he had hoped for.  In the back of his mind, some small part of him wanted to see the well-dressed man soften, just a touch.  To give him permission to shut the whole thing down, to make sure Sherlock was safe.  He felt his well lined face settle into stone, an expression well practiced from years of questioning witnesses and interviewing criminals.  Funny that he'd need it for talking to someone who he considered a friend.  Maybe that was the problem.  He wasn't Mycroft's friend; he was his little brother's keeper.  Fine.  Not-friends didn't extend each other favors.

"You're right.  I do have more important things to do.  For example, I led a raid on a flat and confiscated enough cocaine there to make a very convincing case against the occupant for intent to distribute."  The words came out clear and strong, but even Greg could tell they lacked conviction.  He knew he wouldn't do it.  Mycroft knew he wouldn't do it.  But damnit!  Sometimes the auburn haired man seated across from him needed to remember that Greg was more than a conveniently positioned tool for spying on Sherlock.

"I know you'd be able to get him out, eventually.  Get the charges dropped.  But we'd hold him for forty eight hours, because that's the law.  And that forty eight hours would buy me more than enough time for my team to track down and arrest enough members of the syndicate that they'd have to pull back.  You'd lose your lead.   **I'd** lose my lead.  But Sherlock would at least be safe.  And I don't care how long you managed to get me suspended for.  I'd do it."  The words came out in a defiant rush, and he almost, almost missed the very tail end of Mycroft's speech.

"Wait.  Did... did you just basically ask me how I'm doing?"  Greg sputtered.  God, he must really look awful.  Mycroft was probably just trying to asses if he was going to have a heart attack and need replacing as Sherlock's keeper.  Bone weary, he slumped down even further in his char.  He should answer.  Why not?  After all, if Mycroft thought he'd need replacing it would happen no matter what he said.  A sharp pang ran through his chest at the thought, but when he tried to identify it it evaporated, leaving only a small, hollow feeling in its wake.

"Me?  Yeah.  Well.  I'm great.  Divorced, finally.  Wife ran off with some bloody Tory Minister, got everything in the divorce thanks to his connections.  They deserve each other.  They're both right cunts.  Got a new flat out in Dagenham.  It's a bit of a trek into the center of the city, but they've good tube access.  Work is work.  It's fantastic and amazing and frustrating and exhausting and bloody never-ending.  I'm sure you know the drill.  Life of a public servant and all that."

Warm brown eyes studied Mycroft carefully.  Lestrade was certainly no Holmes, but he was a fine detective in his own right with plenty of experience reading people.  There was something there.  He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was subtly different about Mycroft's countenance.  During a fight with his wife (ex-wife, he corrected himself) he'd been told that the reason someone asks how your day went was because they want to be asked in return.  It was unlikely the stoic man across from him would answer, but it was worth a try.

"So.  Uh... How are you doing?"   _Smooth, Lestrade.  Real smooth._

\---------------

Mycroft didn't even bat an eye at Lestrade's outburst, simply letting the man's anger wash over him. He couldn't exactly say the reaction was unexpected, and it was certainly deserved in this case. He might have seemed somewhat callous, but that was really just to make sure he was safe. To hide his true concerns for those close to him. And, really, to hide how close those people were. But then Greg's demeanor changed, the sheer exhaustion coming through again, and Mycroft watched him intently as he talked about his life. No, he didn't need to make outward deductions like Sherlock did. He could be perfectly diplomatic about it, and make more friends that way. After all, people usually liked the option of being able to talk about their day rather than have it deduced.

And when the question came, he didn't particularly answer, and found himself in silence once again, weighing each word. He never spoke without first considering what he was going to say, and as such outbursts from him were few and far between. Unless he was snapping at someone for a mistake, he carefully measured out his speech before he said a word, like a poet forcing lines into an established rhyme scheme. "I'm sorry to hear about your divorce," was the first thing that he said, deflecting away from himself for the moment. "That must have been rather hard for you, though at least you didn't have any children to complicate the matter." Yes, that was brilliant, bring up the fact that he and his wife had been unsuccessful in having kids. If he remembered correctly, that had actually been the subject of several fights according to Sherlock's rapid-fire deduction train of thought one of the last times Mycroft had asked him about Lestrade. Then Sherlock had asked him why he cared, and Mycroft had hung up.

Mycroft cleared his throat slightly, turning his attention to the sleeves of his shirt. He had been working quite heavily earlier and as such, his black suit jacket was long abandoned over the back of his chair, his sleeves--and he never, oh he never did this unless he was having an apocalyptic day like today--rolled up to his elbows. He began unrolling them now, movements slow, careful, deliberate. "And as for me, I'm perfectly fine. Work is work, as you said, and mine has been exceedingly demanding today, more so than usual, I'm afraid. My brother is..." He smiled slightly with no humor. "Let's just say he's sending me to an early grave."

One sleeve done, the cuff buttoned, he moved onto the next. "I'm afraid that I may have been too harsh with you earlier, Gregory. Please don't misunderstand my actions as any sort of animosity towards my brother. I care about him deeply, but to interfere now is not in anyone's best interests. Soon, though, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands if his behavior continues." He finished the second sleeve and looked up at Lestrade again, brow dropping somewhat over his steely blue-grey eyes. "But my well-being isn't your concern, my brother's is. It was kind of you to ask, though."

**\--------------**

Greg smiled politely when Mycroft offered him his sympathies about his failed marriage, nodding in agreement.  He had learned early on that frankly stating that he was happy to finally be done with her, that she was a miserable bitch and that he was better off without her generally just led to more sympathy.  Like he had to say it because it was what was expected of men.  But despite the exhausting effect the procedures had on him, he really was well and truly relieved.  He almost told Mycroft as much, expecting the man to be one of the few people who could appreciate the frank honesty of the statement, but something about those piercing blue eyes looked dreadfully uncomfortable with the subject. Well, ok.  For anyone else it would have been the slightest creasing around the eyes and a very slight compression of the lips.  For Mycroft, it was practically a grimace.  Accompanied with the clearing of his throat, it was clear as a billboard that the man found the whole situation quite... unsavory.

Funny that.  When did he get so good at reading Mycroft's expressions?  Two years ago he would have sworn that the man was carved from a glacier, but the longer they knew each other the easier it became to see exactly how much the brilliant man actually emoted.  The motions of his face were subtle, careful, refined; very much like Mycroft himself.

When Mycroft's elegant hands began fussing with his upturned sleeve cuffs, the DI became suddenly aware that the other man's ever present suit coat had been removed.  Had he ever seen Mycroft without a jacket before?  No... definitely not.  The silver haired man carefully schooled his face into indifference.  God knows that the last thing Mycroft needed to do was deduce how fascinated he was.  Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware that Mycroft was offering him assurances; Sherlock would be ok, Big Brother had it handled, thank you very much.  

Those elegant cellist's fingers - yes if Sherlock was a violin, Mycroft was surely a cello; deep, rich in tone, understated - slowly unrolled the fabric back down, fastening the cuff with deftness and surety.  It was like watching a strip tease in reverse; the motions made the DI's throat unexpectedly tight.  Every movement was so precise, and still somehow fluid.  And without his ever-present jacket, the whole situation felt almost like being in the room with Mycroft only half dressed.  Greg had to fight back a sudden flush that crept up his neck.  Instead, he evened his breathing and took a cautious glance at Mycroft's face.  He saw something he could empathize with all too well; loneliness and deep, bone searing exhaustion.  Sherlock really was working him into an early grave, and the whole of the bloody government was racing the detective to it.

"Look.  I know this is coming completely out of the blue, and we're both knackered... but... well.  Fancy a pint?  Somewhere that's... not here?  How long has it been since you've been to a proper pub, anyway?" _God.  That sounded awful.  Even I'm wincing at that.  Try again._

"I guess what I'm trying to say is... well.  Ehrm.  You look out for Sherlock, you have everybody else look out for Sherlock.  Who looks out for you, Mycroft?  Whose concern is your well being?  I thought that...  Ah.  Maybe.  Look.  I know your brother, I know a lot about what a fantastic pain he can be, and I... Well.  I thought maybe if you ever just wanted to talk about it instead of receiving 'reports' that I could be a friend to you.  In that regard."  He chuckled warmly.  "God knows everybody that knows him could probably use some kind of support group."

The words were out of his mouth before he could snatch them back. _Brilliant.  Just brilliant.  Ask one of the most powerful, poshest men in the British Empire out for a pint at a common pub.  The lack of complete sentences really must have made the whole request that much more appealing.  You're not comrades-in-arms.  You're his brother's babysitter, for all intents and purposes.  Offer him an out.  At least spare him from having to turn you down outright._

"Ah.  I'm sorry.  I'm sure you have business to attend to and I can see you've been working quite hard," Lestrade gestured to the veritable snow drift of papers cluttering Mycroft's desk.  "So, I'll leave you to it."  And with that, Gregory Lestrade gathered the last of his wits and dignity about him and rose out of his chair to take his leave from the brilliant, captivating, somehow tragic man across from him.

\---------------

Concern. Greg was actually concerned for him. He must not have been hiding his emotions as well as he thought he had. Though, perhaps, with the lateness of the hour and the sheer amount of pressure on him today, it could be forgiven. Just this once. His eyes lifted to Greg's again, and yes, concern was written in every line of that face, taking precedence over the exhaustion for the moment. More pressing, however, was the flush still lingering on Lestrade's neck. Why would he be flushing? What had Mycroft done in the past few minutes that could elicit that reaction?

Oh. The sleeves. Most people usually had an odd reaction to seeing him underdressed like that, even if underdressed meant his suit jacket was off and his sleeves were rolled up. He did feel somewhat naked like that, so perhaps it wasn't that far off for them to feel the same. That was the most reasonable explanation, at least, but whatever the reason was, Greg was flushing and it made him seem younger than he actually was. The DI could use a vacation, he was certain of that. Maybe if he just eased up on the surveillance of Sherlock, Greg would be able to breathe for a little while, focus on one thing at a time. He really was concerned about him. Mycroft could see the way the years were taking their toll on him, see it in every line in his face and every gray hair, that weariness and loneliness that always followed great men to their graves.

And Greg was a great man, in his opinion. Selfless and giving and loyal, always concerned about doing the right thing when Mycroft was only concerned with doing the least accountable thing. He had to admire the sheer nobility of the detective's work, at least. Devoting his time to help others. Technically Mycroft did the same thing, but a lot of things got lost in the governmental haze of hush-hush and no mistakes. Maybe it wasn't too late for him to become a police detective. Then again, Greg didn't seem exactly happy with his job. Stressed, tired, a little frazzled, judging from the incomplete sentences, but not exactly happy. And God, could Mycroft understand that.

When Greg stood to leave Mycroft suddenly couldn't stand being in his office anymore and he sighed heavily, looking down at the papers on his desk before looking back up at Greg. "I would be delighted, actually. I could..." He hesitated, unwilling as usual to actually reveal the truth. "I could use a break." And you could as well was on the tip of his tongue but he swallowed it again, knowing it had no place among his carefully measured and meted words. Greg was actually trying, and so Mycroft should be nice about it. Graciously accept, go 'out for a pint' like he hadn't in years, and--maybe, actually, for once, crazily, there was a chance--enjoy himself. With Greg, he had a feeling he could actually relax and be himself. Which was dangerous.

He stood, his hands resting against the edge of his desk, and smiled slightly at Greg. "Besides, you've been so accommodating concerning my brother, the very least I could do is buy you a drink for it. A 'pint' as you said." That word sounded so out of place in his mouth that he was pretty sure it only came out in an effort to run away from him out of the sheer wrongness of its use. It nearly made his face twist up in displeasure, but instead he retained the polite smile he usually used on diplomats, though a little genuine emotion slipped through. Yes, this was dangerous.

\---------------

_Is... is Mycroft Holmes smiling at me?  I've seen his fake smile enough to know.  That's a smile.  That's an actual fucking smile._

If the thought caused his pulse to quicken slightly and his heart to flutter, it surely was because the whole situation was so uncommon.  Mycroft without his jacket; somewhat exposed while expressing his concern for his reckless younger brother.  Mycroft looking... weary.  Mycroft, alone in this cell of an office, evidence of the messes other people created scattered across his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up as if he were engaged in disposing of something unpleasant.  Which he quite possibly was doing before Greg came in with more troubles to add to the man's extensive list.  

Yes.  That was it.  The sheer honesty of the moment was what had the DI off kilter, heartbeat quickening while his temperature rose.  Certainly not because he was still thinking about the strong lines of the auburn haired man's elegant, pale wrists.  Certainly not that.  And it most definitely wasn't because he was wondering what the rest of those ever-present buttons hid from view.  For example, what would Mycroft look like with the top two buttons of his shirt undone, hollow of his lean throat exposed?  Nope.  Not that.  That was most obviously not the reason for the temperature in the room rising a degree.

Greg found he couldn't easily tear his mind away from the image.  How would Mycroft look, unbuttoned and.. well... casual?  Well what would he look like other than starkly uncomfortable.  In the two years they had known each other Greg recognized that in the same way Sherlock wore that coat of his like a shield, Mycroft wore his suits like armor.  Impenetrable and impeccable.  What kind of man wore a suit of armor every single day?  Wouldn't the weight of it eventually be exhausting?  Judging by the thin lines around the edges of piercing blue eyes and the compression of his lips, it certainly was.  The DI knew the signs.  He saw them in the mirror during his every-day shave.  Sometimes looking at Mycroft was like looking into a mirror.  Despite their dissimilarities, they did hide the same shroud of weariness just underneath their necessary public personas.  

Maybe that was why he risked looking an absolute fool to ask the man out for a drink.  It wasn't simply just Mycroft's obvious need for respite.  No, not just that.  Greg  recognized something similar enough to his own state; lonely, worn thin, and doggedly determined to do even more despite it.  Perhaps... perhaps  it wasn't just because he thought Mycroft needed a break but because Greg needed a friend.  How strange that of all his mates at the Yard and old friends from college, the person he felt he could empathize with was the brilliant mind running the entire fucking country.  Your life irrevocably changed when a Holmes entered it.  That was a stark fact.  It became difficult and exhausting, yes.  But it also became bloody brilliant.  Exciting.  You couldn't help but see the world from their point of view, at least as much as a non-Holmes could.

Suddenly Greg was painfully aware of his (hopefully) momentary - _please god let it have been momentary_ \- silence. He smiled at the weary redhead across from him; the expression companionable and warm.

"You would?  Oh.  Good.  Great!"  The smile felt uncomfortable on his face, and Lestrade became acutely aware of the last time he had a genuine good time.  After work drinks with Sally and Anderson certainly didn't count.  They weren't the villains that Sherlock made them out to be, but they weren't exactly great company either.  Again, it was the curse of having a Holmes in your life.  Everybody else started to seem frightfully dull by comparison.

"Right.  Well, then.  Shall we?"

\---------------

"Of course," Mycroft said smoothly, lifting his mobile and beginning to text. "I'll have Anthea bring the car around."

Greg looked...well, Greg looked flustered, and it was odd for Mycroft. Uncomfortable. Comfortable? He couldn't make up his mind at the moment. That was what he got for allowing genuine emotion into his expression. Greg, slightly flushed, clearly thrown off by something in the situation between them. With the way Greg's eyes seemed drawn to his throat and to where his skin had previously been exposed on his arms, Mycroft's first guess would have been that the detective was wondering what else was hiding under his clothing. But this was Greg. He had just divorced his wife. He was straight. He was tired and frustrated and absolutely, completely straight. But he was also flustered.

And then there was that smile. That warm, open smile, like Mycroft accepting his offer was the greatest unexpected surprise of his day. Well, it was definitely a surprise--Mycroft had been surprised at himself for accepting the offer, but goddamn if he didn't need a drink today and Greg would be good company, he was certain--but the sheer enjoyment in that smile was what knocked him off balance. While Mycroft could be as diplomatic as he liked and often was in his line of work, he knew that in general, he was not considered to be the most desirable of company. To people like his brother, who could match his intellect, he seemed like a ponce, self-important and overly noble and patriotic because of his work. To other, regular people, he seemed standoffish and rude, pretentious because of his superior intellect. And yet here Greg was, looking ecstatic to be getting a pint with him. Odd.

Unless...unless he combined Greg's actions and initial flustered air with his excitement and came to a conclusion that went against his previous notions about the DI's sexuality. Not that he often thought about Greg's sexuality. But there he was again, making assumptions just like Sherlock based on little information and with nothing to confirm or deny his instincts. It didn't matter if he was almost always right, Mycroft knew as a diplomat that it was impolite to assume. So usually, he didn't. But in this case, the previous actions noted plus the extended silence that Greg had partaken in before speaking again, looking somewhat unaware of the lapse, led Mycroft to believe that even if the assumption wasn't wholly correct, he was on the right track. So. How to approach this.

Well, it wasn't like he needed a battle plan. He was just going to get drinks with Greg, on Greg's invitation, and continue on as if he hadn't noticed anything. Most of his life was spent pretending he hadn't noticed what he actually had. It was tragic, in a way. Constantly unable to actually share the burden of his genius, because unlike Sherlock he couldn't just blurt out the things that he noticed. Instead, he waited, and perhaps it could be used later--the ambassador to Moscow was using cocaine, the one from Uganda was having an affair--but most often, he had to swallow the knowledge back down, contain it because it would cause more harm than good if it was out. Mycroft had the unfortunate, uncanny feeling that Greg's presence would make him want to let those things slip out. The man had a very relaxing air to Mycroft, and that was dangerous.

Mycroft looked back up from his phone again, offering Greg another small smile, this one merely polite, as he said, "It'll be there by the time we make it to the front door." He turned to pick up his suit jacket, slipping it back on with the most elegant motion he could manage, and buttoned it again as he asked, "Where did you want to go?"

\---------------

The subtle genuineness that Greg had detected in Mycroft's smile cooled some as he finished typing out his instructions to Anthea.  Right.  Well.  It figures that this'd be some sort of 'peace offering' for their earlier disagreement.  Lestrade recognized his value as an asset to the elder Holmes, and the man didn't seem the type to let things go without smoothing them over some.  Hell, Mycroft himself had even said it... "the very least I could do is buy you a drink for it."  

The silver haired DI bit back a sigh without really understanding why he felt the need to sigh about it in the first place.  So Mycroft just wanted to buy him a drink for not arresting his brother.  That was fine, buying drinks for each other as a way of thanks was something normal folks did all the time.  So this was normal.  Well, normal for them, anyway.  There'd always be Holmes-ian complications like human trafficking rings and pending intent to distribute charges.  But hey.  At least it wasn't dull.

Still, as he watched Mycroft effortlessly shrug back into his jacket, Greg had to bite back another sigh building in his chest.  Again, so strange.  Where exactly was all this coming from?  The heart palpitations, the strange uneasy fluttering in his stomach that had plagued him the entire ride over... He had almost thoroughly managed to convince himself that, at least on the way into the club, it was having to deliver bad news about his brother's state to Mycroft.  Now, that was done with.  And the odd tension was still present in their interactions.  

Despite the fact that they were obviously comfortable around each other (two years of fighting beside each other in the trenches, battling Sherlock for every inch of improvement in his situation) there was an uneasy air to their interactions as of late.  It was probably just the exhaustion they were both obviously dealing with.  Being tired did strange things to a man, and as seemingly untouchable as Mycroft Holmes was surely he felt the effects of exhaustion too.  Perhaps it was all just a touch awkward because they were leaning on each other for once, supporting each other through this rather nasty spot of business.  It was only awkward because neither one of them was familiar enough with being supported to know how to handle the offer graciously.

They did make a fine pair, didn't they?  Two stubborn men, fighting to bring order to people and places that just simply didn't want it.  Well good.  It was good at least that they'd have this evening to spend in each other's company.  Even if they didn't talk about Sherlock, or the Yard, or the bloody government, or any of it.  It would still be good to just sit with someone who understood.

Right.  He should stop fussing about with his feelings and pick a pub.  Let's see... what was that place that Dimmock's brother had them all out to for the man's fortieth?  Nice place.  Posh, for a pub.  Craft brewery or somesuch.  Hopefully Mycroft wouldn't feel too out of place and there'd be something to his liking there.

"Ah.  Well, I've been out to the Evening Star in Brighton once before.  It was nice.  Had a lot of specialty brews.  Thought maybe we could find something there that suits us both."  Brown eyes flashed with a bit of mischief as he caught Mycroft's stormcloud colored gaze.

"What, you didn't think I'd actually drag you out to some dingy copper's pub, did you?"  He laughed, a warm chuckle that spread through his chest like good brandy.  Of course that was what Mycroft thought.  No wonder the man seemed so displeased.

"Nah, I actually like you!  I wouldn't even subject your brother to the stuff the lads and I drink."  He clapped a companionable hand on Mycroft's jacketed shoulder, and the sudden realization of what he had done hit him like a lightning bolt.  Other than cursory handshakes, he didn't actually think he had touched the other man before.  He hadn't really meant to.  It was simply an easy, familiar gesture.  Something he did when out with a group.  Not something that someone did to the British bloody Government.  He started, withdrawing his hand with what he hoped wasn't too much speed.  But even once his hand had settled at his side, the DI's fingers felt strangely tingly.  It was almost like they remembered the feel of the expensive fabric draped across that curved shoulder.  Odd.  He was too tired.  A nice pint would settle all this out.  It usually did.

"Well, shall we?"

\---------------

The hand on Mycroft's shoulder hit him like a thunderclap and it had hardly even registered in his mind before Greg's warm hand was gone once again. His shoulder felt cold without it there but he was being ridiculous, of course the absence of a warm hand from where it had just been would make his shoulder feel cold even through the layers of his suit. Absolutely ridiculous. But still. No physical contact on even that level had happened between them, nothing even resembling any type of close familiarity like Greg showed with his friends or Mycroft might've shown if he'd had friends. Is that really the level he'd sunk to? Having absolutely no friends? Practically forcing the man who was babysitting his brother to have a drink with him because he didn't have anyone else? Only no, Greg had asked him.

But why, really? Greg had plenty of friends; people from the Yard, old flatmates, university friends, Mycroft was sure of that. He could have gone out with any of them--and frequently went out with his Yard mates after cases according to Sherlock's complaints about the unbearable dullness of it all and the necessity to keep solving crime at all hours of the day and night instead of socializing--but he chose to ask Mycroft. Why? Why ask the man whose baby brother you were looking after, partially against your will? If he was being honest, he'd thought that Greg's feelings towards him were always bordering dislike. He wouldn't blame him for that, either. Greg was warm and kind and friendly, and Mycroft was cold and distant. Out of necessity, yes, but that didn't change the persona he put out.

It took Mycroft all of two minutes to realize that he was absolutely mentally basking in the warmth that Greg was putting out. Not just in the warmth from the hand on his shoulder (and that shoulder was still tingling slightly but that wasn't important oh no), but also in the general, genial warmth that the man had. The companionable smile, the friendly, genuine laugh, the easy speech that didn't have a hidden meaning behind every word like nearly every other person Mycroft talked to. Greg was just...warm. Warm and kind and lovely and Mycroft was shamelessly basking in the whole thing without even realizing it. His shoulders had dropped slightly, some of the tension in them gone, his tight brow had unknit itself again, the compression of his lips had eased itself a little. He was feeling much, much better in Greg's presence, and he had no idea why.

Sure he could blame his exhaustion, or Greg's, or the tension arising from his brother's circumstances, but none of that was really the truth, was it? He was feeling more relaxed because Greg himself was calming to him. As little sense as that made to Mycroft. Because it hadn't exactly been true throughout their previous interactions through the years. Those had been fraught with tension for the most part, although Sherlock was mostly to blame for that. When Sherlock had been at his worst, Greg had been by so frequently that Mycroft found his shoulders set into a tight line every time Greg entered his office. He'd been conditioned at that point to expect the worst from him, and for a long time it was true.

So this was a new development, then. This ease of interaction. It couldn't be because of anything to do with Sherlock because things there were as bad as ever, so it had to be something to do with them. Something had changed in their interactions, and Mycroft wasn't sure why. It wasn't just limited to him, either. While the tension he always held was unwinding slowly under Greg's warmth, Greg himself seemed to be relaxing as well, becoming friendlier and more open, treating Mycroft less like a boss and more like a friend. It was good, he thought. That they were both feeling a little better with the other there. Mycroft didn't know why that thought made him feel so much better.

"Of course," was all he said, smiling again--a little actual enjoyment slipped in again and he didn't pull it back out this time--but he put a hand on Greg's elbow, just a feather light touch, and began to lead him out of the private room and back out through the club. Sure, he didn't need that hand there, sure he knew Greg could find his own way out or follow him there, but he wanted to give back a little of the warmth Greg had given him, and a friendly touch on the arm was the most he could do at the moment.

\---------------

When Mycroft smiled at him again, the warmth Greg detected previously had returned.  The fine lines around stormy blue eyes had faded some, auburn brows un-knit and he seemed generally more at ease.  In fact, the simple relaxation in his face made the other man look healthier than he had in quite some time.  The silver haired DI would have taken a moment more to savor the rare sight; the times he'd seen Mycroft actually enjoying himself could be easily counted on one hand.  But then one of the other man's aristocratic hands brushed lightly against his elbow, guiding him out of the office and back out through the Club.  Though light, the touch shot through him like a jolt of electricity, very nearly knocking the breath out of him.  His vision spun momentarily, and his head swam as sense memory kicked into high gear.  He knew this feeling.  

This was, well... The last time he felt like that was when Janice grabbed his hand at that stupid freshman mixer dance back in the very beginning of their Uni days.  The unexpected intimacy of the gesture sent his skin to tingling and he knew, he absolutely knew, that he was head over heels for her.  It was the same then as now.  So this meant...  Well.  It was thought so surprising that his mind couldn't wrap a sentence around it.  But it was undeniable what that feeling meant, even if the sensation itself had been long forgotten.  Or at least forgotten until now.

_I.  What?  I can't.  Am I seriously having a crush on Mycroft The-Bloody-British-Government Holmes?  Oh god.  I am._

Not that it was a bad thing.  Or out of line with his sexuality.  Greg had never really considered himself bisexual but he had never really considered himself anything in particular.  He liked people he connected with emotionally.  The bodies didn't really seem to matter all that much.  There had been one sort-of boyfriend in high school, and a few short lived affairs with male and female friends in Uni, but then he met Janice and every bit of his attention focused on her.  It wasn't until after years of cheating and fighting that he even started to recognize other people as attractive again.  And even then, it was still only rarely. So this was a sign, yeah?  He was getting over things, ready to move on and the like.  Not a bad thing at all.

But... wait no, it **was** a bad thing.  Not because of what he felt; that was certainly not bad.  Mycroft had an awful lot of appealing qualities.  Handsome as sin, clever beyond anyone's reckoning, polite, dedicated... the list could go on forever.  But it there was absolutely no way it was or ever could be reciprocated.  For one, he was responsible for looking after the man's little brother!  Didn't that make him an employee or family or something?  And for another, well, there'd really be no hiding it.  There was no hiding anything from Mycroft.  Not for long, anyway. And that meant things would change... get complicated.  The last thing someone in Mycroft's position needed was some stressed-out DI mooning over him.  He'd be replaced, and rightly so.  And then who would look after Sherlock when he was with the Yard?  And he'd miss having these meetings and the odd sort of friendship they'd struck up and ...

_Woah.  Ok.  I need to slow down here.  Just because I haven't had a crush on someone since Uni doesn't mean I need to go about acting like an idiot teenager.  Mycroft warmed up just a touch, and I really liked what I saw.  That's fine.  That's completely fine.  But crushes, they go away, yeah?  So... I should just wait it out.  It's probably just because I'm tired and unfortunately lonely and I'm pretty sure the last person that actually touched me in an even vaguely affectionate way was last week when Sally clawed my arm on the curb to keep me from accidentally stepping out into traffic chasing after that damn suspect._

But as his reeling thoughts were all too quick to point out as he followed Mycroft out the front of the Diogenes Club and into one of the ever-present black cars, that wasn't necessarily true.  He put himself on the line an awful lot for the Holmes brothers over the last two years.  His career, his well-being, and what for?  Why?  It was because he liked them both, certainly.  But while he liked Sherlock despite his odd qualities he liked Mycroft because of them.  And he trusted Mycroft.  Not just to take care of Sherlock's messes without getting the DI canned, but he trusted him as... well... a person.  A good person, despite the icy exterior.  Mycroft Holmes was a solid, stable force in the universe that Greg had unintentionally come to rely on in the past few tumultuous years.  Not that they had been particularly friendly, but just knowing that there was one other person that willingly shared responsibility for or hell, even just knew  what was going on with Sherlock and the complicated legal and political web that the wild young man tangled himself in...

Well.  It wasn't really all that surprising to find that he had been harboring feelings for the elegant, auburn haired man.  Probably had been for quite some time, in fact.  Just always too busy, too stressed, to otherwise engaged to notice.  But tonight, with the public masks being peeled back off of both of them, the idea sort of crept into the forefront of Lestrade's mind and made itself quite at home.

They had exited the club in what the DI prayed was companionable silence, though upon remembering the rules of the club it's not like they had much of a choice.  Once in they were seated back of the cab, though, conversation would start up again.   _Right.  So.  What do you talk about with someone like Mycroft Holmes?_

Politics were out.  He had enough of that in his daily life.  The weather, crap telly, and any other 'random stranger' topics were too impersonal.  Any history they shared was likely too personal, at least to start with.  And anything was better than having Mycroft watch him carefully and deduce what was whirling through his mind before Greg fully got a chance to suss it all out himself. _So, I'd best take the initiative._

"I like film noir," Greg blurted once they had both gotten settled.  Oh.  Wait.  Right.  As much as it seemed like Mycroft was a mind reader, the man actually wasn't.  And thank god for that, at least tonight.  The man was brilliant, observant, and certainly more well mannered than Sherlock, but not actually capable of reading someone's mind.  It was obvious from the way that one fine, auburn eyebrow arched at him incredulously that his outburst really was a surprise.

"Ah!"  He laughed loudly at himself, putting one hand up to his forehead.  After taking a moment to catch his breath, he explained.  "No.  Sorry.  You see, I was thinking that this is the part where we make small talk, yeah?  But you already know more than enough about current affairs and neither one of us is the type of bloke to talk about the weather.  So, ah.  That left interests.  Hobbies and the like.  Not that either of us has much time for that.  But.  Ah.  Yeah.  So.  I like film noir.  The Maltese Falcon and Gilda and The Big Heat and all that.  What kinds of movies do you watch?  Y'know.  If you watch them."

\---------------

Having his hand on Greg's arm steadied Mycroft more than he'd like to admit. It was soothing, in a way. To steadily guide the other man out of the building in absolute silence, ignoring any other patrons and delving into his own thoughts for awhile, his eyes occasionally going to study Greg's face, though only briefly before flitting away again. Greg looked like he was reeling, honestly. He was trying to keep himself from revealing something to Mycroft, and mostly succeeding, but he was definitely struggling with something in his thought process and Mycroft wondered if Greg had made the same deductions about himself that Mycroft had made earlier. Or perhaps he was thinking about a work issue. The world didn't revolve around the Holmes brothers, after all, though Mycroft's world often seemed to revolve around his brother.

Greg was silent well into the backseat of the car and Mycroft was too busy making observations to really notice. There was definitely something different about the man. Something had changed even in just the few short minutes it took to walk out through the club, and Mycroft couldn't quite figure it out. Something. Something significant to Greg. Something that made him slightly flustered and made him blurt out his statement and babble on with reasoning for a few minutes as Mycroft watched him, one eyebrow arched. Film noir? He could understand that. An image, unbidden, of Greg wearing a trench coat and fedora rose in his mind and he couldn't help the chuckle that made its way out of his throat. It was both a hilarious and, well, somewhat attractive image. Greg would look quite dashing in the clothing of the time period, though Mycroft himself was partial to men in suits as it was. Though perhaps that was just from his constant exposure to them, never a lick of casual clothing in sight in his line of work. He was bound to develop either a taste for or aversion to it from that much exposure.

"My apologies," he said delicately to cover for his laugh. "I was not laughing at you, film noir is an excellent theatrical genre. My mind was elsewhere for a moment. As for my own tastes, I much prefer Swing Era musicals." He smiled at Greg's obvious surprise at this; most people did not expect the man who mostly made up the British government to enjoy musicals, of all things, though the particular time period he preferred fit more with his elegant persona. "Don't be so surprised, Gregory. There is a level of style and sophistication in those films that has been lost in our modern movies. Why should I want to watch amateurs dance and sing on stage when I could have Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Rita Hayworth, and the like?"

He smiled, and went to turn the handle of his umbrella when he realized he'd left it in his office. That was alright, there was another one under the seat, which he pulled out and began to turn. Satisfied, security blanket back in hand, he continued, "Of course, Sherly always did hate them and ceaselessly tormented me about watching them, but I found him dancing to 'It Don't Mean a Thing' one day, so I believe I won that battle. Was it film noir that made you want to become a police officer?"

There. He'd delivered enough personal information to keep the DI interested, managed to mention their uniting force--Sherlock--and then had successfully turned the conversation back to Greg. For Mycroft, every conversation was almost like a game of tennis. The goal was to keep batting the ball back and forth between you and your conversational partner (opponent) until you hit the ball so hard that they couldn't return it. That was usually how it went in his business deals, at least. The point was to score in the end, and scoring was something he did very well. In this case, as with most of his casual conversations, there really wasn't a conscious effort to score; more an effort to keep the ball going back and forth. But now he knew Greg was trying to keep him from reading something, whatever it was that had knocked him off balance earlier, and that meant he had to score a point. Find out what Greg was hiding.

Although if his earlier guesses had been right and Greg was perhaps somehow interested in him, then perhaps he should take a different approach. Play this softly. Let things develop in their own time rather than press for more information. Playing diplomat was second nature to him, so why shouldn't this be any different? Just because he'd known Greg for two years now and had come to rely on him for certain things, come to see him as a friend--oh. So he liked him.

The knowledge didn't really startle Mycroft. Nothing really startled him, though his feelings for Greg came closer than most things had before. Probably because the only other person he was really emotionally invested in was Sherlock, and that had clearly turned out so well for all parties involved. Constantly having to look after him because if anything happened to his baby brother, it'd be the end of the world. But now...Greg... Maybe. He'd leave it as a maybe for the moment. A maybe, with a chance to explore it further as the night developed. That was good enough for Mycroft for the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft and Greg have a painfully long car ride, and finally make it to the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 Warnings: Mentions of suicide, mentions of drug use, awkward flirting

Greg couldn't help but be surprised at Mycroft's taste in films.  It made sense really; there was something grandiose yet refined about the aesthetics of the films that suited the elder Holmes well.  Like so many things about the man seated next to him it seemed incongruous at first, but after a moment's thought made perfect sense.  Of course it would.  Everything about Mycroft fit him as well as his tailored suits, even if it didn't appear so on the surface. And the mention of a young Sherlock dancing to the soundtrack to an old musical made him laugh outright, but that laughter faded as Mycroft's question registered.

Greg couldn't make heads or tails of it.  Surely Mycroft knew.  Mycroft knew everything.  But looking across into stormy blue eyes he could tell somehow that the question was genuine.  Polite, but genuine.  Hell.  Well there was no sense in lying; undoubtedly the other man would deduce the lack of truth and either press him further or be insulted at the DI's attempt to lie.  Well.  It was a bit early in the evening for something so somber, but in a way Lestrade thought that it was something the other man needed to know.  Maybe it would help him understand why Greg let himself be run so ragged keeping tabs on Sherlock.  Besides, while it wasn't the most pleasant of stories the situation itself was long passed.  Time did take the sharp edges off the worst of the pain.

 _Not only that_ , a voice in the back of his mind whispered, _but it'll certainly give him something else to think about.  Maybe he'll miss noticing that I turned into a giddy schoolgirl back there._

"That's um.  Ha.  I'm surprised you don't know; I thought there'd be a file on me or something.  Even if not, Sherlock deduced it within minutes of meeting me.  But, well, I guess he has a different pool of experiences to draw on."  Unconsciously Greg furrowed his brow and raked a hand through his silver hair at the memory.  Strong words and no few blows were exchanged as a result of their first meeting.  Well, neither Lestrade nor the younger Holmes were at their best that day. And it was all downriver now anyway; long passed and gladly forgotten.

"Ah.  Well.  Me.  The Yard.  That's a bit of a tale.  If you don't mind?"  Mycroft's nod was all he needed to wash away the last of his insecurities.  It only seemed fair, really, to tell the inquisitive man.  After all, their evening had already seen them both become so oddly open that it didn't seem to be out of line at all.

"I guess it started with my brother, Daniel.  Danny.  A lot like Sherlock, really. Too bloody smart for his own good but not nearly smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.  Our Da was, well, not to speak ill of the dead but he was a right bastard.  And Danny, well, he didn't take it so well.  Got into a nasty scene in school and continued escalating his bad behavior through Uni.  I was always the one he'd call to get him out of scrapes.  It made me really, truly want to be able to do something to stop him.  Not just help him out of rough patches.  I really wanted the authority to hold him accountable for his behavior.  To make my Da answer for his part."

"It didn't really solidify as a career option until my last year at Uni.  At that point Danny was pretty much entrenched in his life of petty crime and too hopelessly addicted to heroin to pull himself out.  I knew his flatmates, if you could even call what they lived in a flat, were supplying him.  But there was only so much I could do about it.  The few tips I called in yielded nothing against his mates but sure got Daniel furious with me.  He and I got in a big row.  We didn't normally argue so much as bicker, but this was different.  Worst fight we ever had.  I told him if he wanted to keep on like he was, then he was not to call me again, ever.  Three weeks later I got the call to come down and identify his body at St. Bart's.  He'd overdosed.  No note to indicate whether or not it was accidental."

"I was furious.  At him, at myself, at those arseholes who gave him enough heroin to OD.  I wanted them to pay, and as appealing as the idea of just going there and bashing heads was I knew it wouldn't have solved any problems.  If anything, it would have just likely gotten me killed as well.  So I decided to join the Yard.  Get trained, get a badge.  Arrest folks like that before they got a chance to poison other people.  Make sure people didn't get away with ruining other folk's lives.  And here I am."

The DI sighed and ran another hand through his hair.  It'd been so long since he talked about Danny.  Janice hated him and never understood why it was that Greg kept going back to his little brother again and again.  While she was supportive right after his death, she seemed to get fed up with hearing about it after a few months.  They fought once, and she had told him that Danny was "just a junkie."  He never discussed it with her after that.  It felt good to tell Mycroft.  Of all the people he'd ever met, he strongly suspected that the elder Holmes truly understood that drive to protect someone who, for all intents and purposes, probably didn't deserve it.  Even when, perhaps **particularly** when, that protection wasn't wanted.  Because that was just what you did for family.

"Sorry," he murmured, smiling at Mycroft.  "It's a bit morose for something this early in the evening, but I figured if anybody would understand..." Lestrade let the sentence trail off, not exactly sure how to put the rest of his feelings on the matter into words.  Well, it was out and that was that.  Maybe if anything it would convince the stoic man seated next to him to engage in a more honest dialogue.  He had the strong suspicion that Mycroft's own past held a lot of the same type of stories.  Those broad shoulders looked like they carried the majority of the Holmes' family's burdens.  Another thing they had in common, then.

Stalwart, reliable, protective to the point of exhaustion.  Weren't they a fine pair.  The British Government and his crazed brother the occasional addict; and DI Lestrade and his dead brother and his failed marriage.  Hopefully hearing Greg's story would at least show Mycroft how successful he had been at helping Sherlock, even if it was like pulling nails every step of the way.

\----------------

At first, Mycroft wasn't sure what to say. Sitting there, listening quietly to Greg's story and feeling such an incredible amount of sympathy rise up through his chest made it hard for him to imagine speaking, trying to find words to sum up the pain and loss he knew Greg must have experienced. But then Greg finished speaking and fell into silence, words hanging in between them like a thick pall. And Mycroft didn't know what to say.

So, instead, he settled for resting his hand on Greg's knee after a moment to contemplate the action. It was unbidden and informal and probably unwelcome, but at the moment the only thought going through Mycroft's mind was that maybe if he touched him, it would comfort him for the moment it took him to find words. It actually took much longer than a moment, a minute or two stretched out in silence, and even then, the words he found were sticky and heavy and had trouble making their way out of his mouth. Simply because he knew how insincere they sounded, and if they didn't, that meant that they were actually the truth. The pure, unadulterated, previously unshared truth that Mycroft usually held so close to his chest. He was only sharing it now because after that much honesty from Greg, it was only fair to return it in kind. Only fair.

"I'm so sorry to hear that, I had no idea," he said, his voice softer, much less commanding than it usually was. Genuine sympathy, he supposed. It had a way of bleeding through even if he didn't want it to, like  a badly stitched bullet wound. A cheerful analogy if there ever was one, though entirely accurate. "I can't imagine what losing your brother must have been like. If I ever lost Sherlock..." He stopped, smiling with no humor. "You realize if I ever lost Sherlock it would be catastrophic. The government might crumble."

He patted Greg's knee, intending to remove his hand, but found it back on Greg's knee once again. A touch to anchor him, it appeared. Well, anchor them both if he was being honest. And he was about to be really, really, brutally honest. "Of course, I can sympathize with your situation because of my own brother's difficulties. I was lucky enough to manage to turn his situation around--for the time being at least--but there is always the chance of losing him some other way."

He sighed a little, and then smiled sadly at Greg. "So of course I understand. I perfectly understand the need to take care of someone, especially if that someone is family and can't manage to take care of themselves. And while I did not take this position of employment because of my brother, it certainly does make it easier to...look after him. Keep track of him. And with hard working men like you on the case, I'm always assured he's well taken care of." He didn't mention that it was clear that Greg looked after Sherlock so closely because he resembled the DI's younger brother, because that would have been rude and vulgar and unnecessary. It was unspoken, but lived in every action Greg took, every odd behavior he forgave, every insult he brushed off. Sherlock meant a lot to him. Maybe it was just due to Danny, but Mycroft knew it was more likely a combination of multiple factors. Especially since Greg was such a caring individual despite his usually gruff exterior and he had, in his own way, adopted Sherlock as part of his surrogate family. And then there Mycroft was, his actual family, equally at a loss for what to do with him.

"That doesn't, of course, mean that I'm not still constantly checking up on his well-being. Considering we're really the only family each other has, you can forgive some of my overprotectiveness, I hope. It is, at the very least, understandable." He squeezed Greg's knee gently, hardly aware of his actions anymore as he was lost in deep thought about his family, all of which was coming out in honest speech. "It's exhausting, isn't it? Taking care of those who do not want to be taken care of? But that's our mark. The unspoken weariness of deep caring and love, tempered only by the irritation to outright rage we sometimes have to feel towards those we look after. After all, no one is perfect, and no man is an island."

\----------------

Mycroft's hand was warm on his knee, and the touch made Lestrade feel better than he had in quite some time.  The silence was companionable, empathetic even.  He was momentarily stricken with a pang of regret; it must have been awful for the so-called "Iceman" to hear his story.  That brilliant mind likely wove Sherlock into the tale at every turn, imagining what it would be like were their situations reversed.  That level of intellect could be damnably difficult to deal with on its own (as any interaction with a Holmes could easily tell you), but coupled with Mycroft's obviously well hidden empathy it must be quite difficult indeed to separate oneself from the troubles of others.  Well.  It was too late to take any of it back now, and at any rate things seemed to be working themselves out, if the comforting hand on his leg was any indication.  Greg tried to ignore the butterflies the feeling called up, but the fluttering in his stomach had started up again the moment Mycroft had initiated contact.  The sensation rushed up his chest, settling in his tightening throat.

 _Great.  You've got it bad, haven't you.  Silly bastard._  His thoughts were more rueful than anything.  Not that he regretted his freshly discovered feelings, but there was a general air of sadness about him when he considered that the most likely option was for the sentiment to go unrequited and inevitably fade.  Still though, it was almost nice in a way.  It helped Greg to lower his guard, something he had gotten quite bad about after the divorce.  His openness in turn encouraged Mycroft into being occasionally honest and open with his own feelings.  It was an odd and amazing window into the actual man behind the politician's persona.  The more he talked with Mycroft the better he found he liked the man.  Not just in a stomach-fluttering "god how did I not notice how handsome he was before today" sort of way, but genuinely appreciating the man underneath the icy mask.  Perhaps when this fever of his had run its course they'd be better friends for it.  That would be nice.  They certainly could both use a friend.

As he started to talk about his own brother, the elder Holmes kept his hand on Greg's knee.  Funny that.  He must have been distracted, and it would be no wonder given the state Sherlock constantly kept him in.  Greg didn't honestly know which one of them had it worse; things had been horrible when he lost Danny but at least time allowed the wounds to heal.  The self-proclaimed Consulting Detective seemed to tear new wounds afresh each week with his erratic behavior.  Greg considered the pained look in the other man's stormcloud blue eyes as he softly stated that the government might crumble should Sherlock come to harm.  The genuine pain and worry in those eyes tipped the balance in favor of Mycroft.  It was as if a fist had wrapped itself around the silver haired man's heart and squeezed.  The DI had no doubt that the statement was true.  Mycroft would be lost without his little brother to look after, and the entirety of the country would be lost without his careful management and subtle intervention.

When Mycroft sighed and smiled sadly, it was all Lestrade could do to not simply wrap his arms around the other man's shoulders.  Not for any untoward reason, but because that's what he'd do with any other person in their situation.  To offer them comfort and the feeling of solidarity.  But that simply wasn't where they were, yet.  So he settled for placing his own hand atop Mycroft's where it rested on his knee.  Greg returned Mycroft's open gaze, brown eyes carefully considering the concern and worry mirrored in the other man's blue irises.

"Look.  I know I shouldn't, but I'm going to promise you something.  Nothing's going to happen to Sherlock, Mycroft.  I won't let it.  You certainly won't let it.  Hell, I think as loathe as they all would be to admit it, the entirety of my division at the Yard looks out for him in one way or another.  It's hard not to.  As infuriating as he is, he's actually a good kid at heart."  He chuckled.  "Well hidden by his disagreeable nature, but true.  So you don't have to be an island, ok?  You... you just **don't**.  That's what you’ve got us for."   _That's what you've got me for_ , he had meant to say, but it felt far too personal and too easy to misinterpret given his current level of infatuation.

"Looks like we're at the pub.  Are you going to at least let me buy you a drink for listening to my sorrows?"  Greg's smile was warm and genuine, but his stomach flipped a bit at the thought of spending an entire evening with Mycroft in his currently addled state.  But no matter how strong his reservations were, the thought of spending the evening alone after everything they just shared sounded even worse.  Best to enjoy what they had for the moment instead of worrying about the future.  Perhaps they could actually pull off just being two mates, sharing a drink or two with some shared sympathies passed between them.  Not DI Gregory Lestrade and The British Government; stalwart guardians of Sherlock Holmes and the city of London.  Just two blokes.  Just for an evening.

\----------------

And here Mycroft was, once again wondering how he hadn't noticed how lovely Greg was before. The man not only placed his hand on top of Mycroft's hand, but he also gave an unnecessary but entirely wonderful speech about looking after Sherlock, assuring Mycroft that nothing would happen to him under his watch. And Mycroft could read the absolute honesty and sincerity in Greg's eyes, a genuine sense of caring coming off of the man in waves that hit Mycroft full force and made him want to embrace the other man. Which he wouldn't do, obviously, because that would be rude and improper, but he still wanted to do it all the same.

When he realized they were actually at their destination he almost regretted it, having been enjoying the close, personal atmosphere of the backseat of his usual town car. That atmosphere was bound to change once they were in the bar, and he wasn't quite sure yet whether alcohol would make it better or worse. Worse, because it would make his tongue as well as Greg's slippery and more willing to share secrets. Better, because he wanted it that way. Wanted that companionship he was rapidly developing with Greg following the admissions on both of their parts. It had been a relief for Mycroft, a slight weight subtracted from all of the others on his shoulders, and he hoped it had been the same for Greg. It seemed like it had, judging from the empathic gazes and comforting hand on Mycroft's own, and even Greg's eyes seemed to have melted into warm pools of chocolate, more at ease with Mycroft than before.

But they were here, and he had to move sometime. "Oh please, let me buy you a drink. You've been wonderfully accomodating to me, after all," he said with a slight smile, just a touch firm around the edges to make it clear that he wasn't really taking no for an answer. He was richer than God after all, so it only made sense for him to be buying. "Besides, you listened to my sob story as much as I listened to yours, so we're equal on that count. Shall we?"

He left his hand on Greg's long enough to help him out of the car--even though he was a grown man who certainly could get out of a car by himself--and then had to let it go, thinking the other man probably wasn't interested in holding hands with him at the moment. Or ever, for that matter. But he was so reluctant to let go of him...Greg's hand was warm, and open, and friendly, and god Mycroft needed to stop lapping up the positive attention from Greg like he was a kitten lapping up spilled milk. Still, his hand lingered on Greg's for longer than it should have, and he had to force himself to tuck it into his pocket so it wouldn't reach out for him again.

He couldn't be blamed for it, really. For being drawn to Greg like that. The DI had opened up to him, and, for the first time in what felt like years (and probably was years) had gotten Mycroft to open up in return. Greg was nice and kind and just the sort of caring that Mycroft needed; the kind with no illusions, no reservations, and no hidden agenda. He could be honest with Greg, if he wanted to, and he found that he did, actually, want to. Funny, really. He hadn't thought he'd needed this, and now he wondered how he could have gone so long without it. Simple companionship. So he was going to buy Greg a drink whether Greg wanted him to or not because it was the only way, at the moment, for him to thank him. And he only hoped that he would find further reason to thank him as the night went on.

\----------------

As Mycroft insisted upon buying their drinks, Lestrade simply smiled.  The other man was being... well... sweet.  It wasn't a word he'd have applied to Mycroft before, but it was quite obvious now that besides being a gentleman and a politician he was also a nice guy.  Not that there was any place for that in the complicated dance of wills and wits that was the political scene these days.  The silver haired DI smiled to himself.  Hell, the true disposition of Mycroft Holmes was probably a state secret.  Greg felt lucky and more than a little privileged to be one of the few that saw enough of the real man behind the Iceman persona to even suspect the kindness hidden within.

"Right then!  I think it's beyond me to stop Mycroft Holmes from getting what he wants.  Drinks on you it is."  There was no barb in the words.  It was a simple, warmly stated fact.  Greg suspected that there were only a scant handful of people in the world that could actually stop Mycroft from accomplishing something he set his mind to.  Unfortunately for both of them, Sherlock was at the top of that very short list.  Or maybe it was fortunate after all.  Greg certainly liked his job more than he had before, and the thought of not having Sherlock's antics to distract him after his split left him feeling a little cold.  No, it was for the best that the slightly mad detective was in his life.  Especially when you took his brother into consideration.

The DI stopped for a moment to do just that, as Mycroft kept hold of his hand as he exited the car.  The sky had long gone dark thanks to the late hour, but light from the pub framed the other man's silhouette, causing his auburn hair to glow a bit as the light hit it.  Shadows caught high cheekbones just right, and coupled with Mycroft's grin the whole scene knocked the breath out of him.  Damn it all!  If the man wasn't stately, then Lestrade certainly didn't know who else could possibly qualify.  The cut of his suit, the ever present umbrella, even his well-bred bone structure.  The man was simply statuesque.  When their fingers parted and Greg exited the car as well, he had to fight a small but strong urge inside him to snatch it back.  His fingers twitched and he almost, almost, reached over when he noticed that Mycroft has placed his well-manicured hand in his pocket, effectively putting a wall between them.  Right.  So much for that then.

_Now really.  Just because you're having the best time you've had in months doesn't mean you're on a **date** , Inspector._

Wait.  Oh god.  That thought had sounded particularly Sherlock-ian.   _Figures that the smarmy bastard would get in my head eventually.  Particularly today.  I took enough guff from him during the search to last me a bloody week._  Greg sighed in mock exasperation, and rummaged around in his coat pocket for a moment, finally digging out a crumpled pack of B &H Golds.

"Hey, before we step in do you mind if I pop off for a minute?"  Greg gestured with the pack, indicating to Mycroft what he was stepping away for.  "It's a dirty habit, I know.  I've been trying to quit for ages, but... well... On days like today?  I tend to indulge myself a bit."  The DI raked a hand through his silver hair in his signature 'abashed' move.  When he looked up he took in Mycroft's slight smirk and querying eyebrow quirk, confusion washing over him before he remembered where it was he had gotten the damn cigarettes in the first place.

"Oh!  Right.  Same brand as your brother; I know.  I confiscate his cigarettes every time I have to raid his flat.  It's a long standing joke between us.  Well, maybe 'joke' is the wrong word. I don't think Sherlock finds it funny at all, but I've got to take any opportunity I can to get some back, right?"

"Anyway, ah... If you want you can go on ahead without me.   Pop in and grab us a table?  Or, y'know, if it doesn't bother you I'm not opposed to company."

\----------------

Usually, Mycroft would have declined the offer to keep Greg company while he smoked, as Sherlock had put him off the whole thing entirely and now it was almost a reflex to try and take cigarettes away from people. But it was Greg, and he didn't want to be rude, and he would rather stay outside, and again, it was Greg. Greg was a grown man perfectly capable of making his own decisions and Mycroft enjoyed his company. So he was going to enjoy it.

Besides, Greg abashed was positively adorable and Mycroft had to stop himself mentally from thinking of him as either 'cute' or 'adorable'. He settled on 'endearing' because it was a word with a lot less danger in it that seemed to be far more dignified and suited to the DI than either of the other two. Yes. Greg was endearing. From his staccato speech to his abashed moves to his concern for others to everything, really, he was rather endearing to Mycroft. Plus the man was a lot more handsome than Mycroft had perhaps initially given him credit for.

"I'd rather stay outside with you," he said graciously as he followed Greg to the designated smoking area outside the bar. "I must admit my brother has made me somewhat averse to the entire idea of smoking, but for a film noir enthusiast I assume it holds more charm." Yes, he was poking fun slightly, as his small, teasing smile indicated, but it was just a little fun and he figured Greg would appreciate it. "Although I do believe that my dear brother only picked up the habit because he saw _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ on the telly and wanted to be like 'that lady with the funny name', or as she's known, Holly Golightly."

Whenever Mycroft talked about something, he always managed to make his way back around to Sherlock, as if he was a buffer between him and the rest of the world. If he shared information about Sherlock, he didn't have to share information about himself, and he could keep the tone light with cute stories of what Sherlock did as a kid rather than explain what he was dealing with during the same time period. It felt, to him, like shutting Greg out, which he didn't exactly want to do, so he quickly asked conversationally, "How did you pick up the habit, if you don't mind me asking?"

\----------------

Greg's heart fluttered again when Mycroft offered to stay outside with him while he indulged his habit.  Perhaps he wasn't completely cocking up his attempt at providing decent conversation.  When Mycroft gently poked fun at him, the DI couldn't help but wrinkle his nose and laugh.  The way that his grey blue eyes sparkled just a bit, the way that his mouth turned up ever so slightly at the corners... Well at least the DI had a reason for breathing deeply now.  He pressed his cigarette to his lips, inhaling and exhaling deeply to cover his sigh.  Mycroft, when he actually was being himself, was altogether too charming.  There was a subtle undercurrent to his playful side that Greg truly appreciated.  Dry, calculated wit with a quick tongue.  Wasn't that what he liked about all those old noir leading men, after all?  Well, the fedoras certainly didn't hurt, either, but Mycroft himself was a rather well dressed man, if in a different style.

_And now I'm comparing his sense of humor and dress to Bogart's.  How did I go from being furious at him an hour ago to being arse over elbow for him?  I really, desperately and truly need a drink._

When Mycroft went into how Sherlock started up the habit, the DI couldn't help but laugh.  It was pretty hilarious, the idea of a presumably young Sherlock trying to emulate Audrey Hepburn.  His laugh deepened, and soon he found himself leaning against the wall for support.  It was just so surreal; sulky, brilliant Sherlock playing at being extroverted, quirky Holly Golightly.  When he finally got his laughter under control he was pleased to see that Mycroft was chuckling as well.

"Now that... **that** is something.  Sherlock!  As Holly!  Ha!  Oh, it's going to be difficult to keep that one under my hat.  I'll be sorely tempted to break it out the next time he's being a right twat."  Greg twisted the quickly diminishing cigarette butt between his thumb and forefinger, regarding it carefully.  How did he end up starting?  It shouldn't be that difficult of a question to answer, but it just sort of seemed to be one of those things that he fell into.

"As for me, I wish I could say that it was an attempt to emulate Johnny Farrell, but it's a lot simpler than that I guess.  I dunno, I started nicking my mum's cigarettes during Year 8, and it sort of grew from there.  Something we did to convince the older boys we were cool just slowly morphed into a habit.  Nothing creative or special, just the usual I suppose."  With that he dropped the butt in the ashtray and turned to Mycroft.  He gave the elegant man a slight, amiable nudge with his shoulder, indicating they should make their way in.  The intimacy of the gesture didn't hit the DI until a moment later, but his auburn haired companion seemed relatively unaffected so he tried not to worry about it **too** much.  As they approached the pub door, he held it open, and as Mycroft strode by him he took the opportunity to ask a question that had been gnawing at him slightly since the elder Holmes' revelation about his little brother.

"But enough about me!  And about Sherlock!  We know he wanted to be Holly Golightly, now that's something.  It makes me curious.  What did you want to be growing up, Mycroft?"

\----------------

It was nice to see Greg actually enjoying himself in Mycroft's presence, for once, and Mycroft couldn't help but join in when Greg was laughing about Sherlock's earlier ambitions. He found it strange, the way he felt upon being responsible for Greg's laughter. It was like a nice little flutter in his chest that brought warmth on its wings and slowly spread through his entire abdomen and settled somewhere in his stomach. He couldn't quite place the sensation, though he felt like he'd had it before. He was, however, becoming more and more certain with each passing minute spent with Greg that this had been the right decision, that if he'd passed up this opportunity it was likely he'd never have one again. Never get to see Gregory Lestrade with his walls down, relaxed and open and amiable.

And things seemed so intimate, too, between them. Usually Mycroft regulated his personal space carefully and yet he accepted Greg's gentle nudge easily, naturally, like they were close personal friends and had been for a long time when that wasn't nearly the truth. If he was being honest with himself, he quite liked that closeness between them, the physical closeness included. Maybe that was why he so easily accepted the nudge, following Greg to the door of the bar as he listened to him. He even let Greg hold the door open for him, which he thanked him for, as usually Mycroft was the one to do that polite sort of thing. It seemed Greg could be a gentleman as well as a gruff DI. Although, really, Mycroft couldn't say he was surprised about any of the many layers that the other man had shown so far. He couldn't say he didn't like any of them either.

But then the question came, and Mycroft had to pause, carefully considering his words. _Curious._ Greg was actually, genuinely curious about him and his childhood, rather than about Sherlock's strange antics at any age. He considered the question as he walked with Greg to one of the small booths off to the side, preferring a more intimate setting. Then he turned to smile at Greg, and said, "Forgive me for my silence, I had to think for a moment. People usually don't ask me about my childhood, and when they do, it's usually a more general 'what was it like' question. But when I was a child, I wanted nothing more than to be Dr. Frankenstein." He smiled at Greg's expression; no, definitely not the expected answer. "I had an illustrated version of the story and it was my favorite book when I was younger. I used to read it over and over again and look at the lovely illustrations and think that there was no nobler goal in life than to create life. The cautionary side of the tale appealed to me as well, and I was convinced I could be a better Frankenstein."

"I really used to terrorize the local insect populations because I would conduct little experiments with them. I was quite the terror before Sherlock came along, I'm afraid," he finished with a smile, blue eyes on Greg as they sat down in the booth. "But what about you?"

\----------------

For some reason, the tone of Mycroft's voice when he said that folks weren't normally interested in what he was like when he was younger made Greg quite melancholy.  Sure, Sherlock was a wacky genius and all.  The stories were likely hilarious, but how different could they be from how the man acted now?  The DI doubted that the surly detective had changed all that much over the years.  Sulking and tantrums included.

What mystified him was how could anyone possibly know Mycroft Holmes and not want to know exactly what went into making that brilliant mind tick?  Sherlock was always chasing after distractions.  As infuriating, charming, and hilarious as the man could be, his motivations were relatively uncomplicated.  Meanwhile, his just-as-if-not-more-so brilliant brother remained a complete mystery at all times.  It was intriguing to say the least.  

Every bit of personal information Greg had managed to get out of Mycroft was like a little treasure; something to hold onto and admire.  First the movies, and now wanting to be Dr. Frankenstein as a child.  Not for power or the tragic romantic aspect, but for genuine respect for the calling to create life with just a tinge of a perfectly-fitting childlike superiority complex.  Better than Frankenstein.  Greg had no doubt that if science was where Mycroft ended up steering his intellect his childhood self would have been proven quite correct.

As they talked, Greg realized that they had settled into a comfy little booth at the back of the pub.  Funny.  He hadn't even really noticed crossing the noisy, crowded floor and settling in at their table.  The DI had simply been fixed on his partner the whole way over.  Now that they were face to face again, Greg took the moment to truly study the face of the man seated across from him.  And not just because he had a brilliant aristocratic aesthetic that was, well, easy on the eyes.  But because Mycroft looked actually happy to be there.  His eyes sparkled and his lips were no longer compressed in a fine line.  In fact, when he wasn't scowling Mycroft had quite a nice mouth...

_And that's enough of that, thank you!  Stay on target, Lestrade._

"Fantastic!  That's just fantastic!  Dr. Frankenstein.  You know, I can see it.  You're quite bright and devoted to your work.  There are similarities there.  I do hope you're considerably less doomed, though."

"And it's another thing we almost have in common.  In Uni I was actually quite fond of Percy Shelley's poetry.  So our tastes nearly cross again.  First in film, now in literature.  Funny, that."

"But as for what I wanted to be as a child?"  He laughed, the sound loud and genuine.  "Well... the parts that I didn't spend wanting to be a pro rugby player, I spent wanting to be Batman."  Greg wrinkled his nose and abashedly raked a hand through his hair again.  Something about Mycroft seemed to bring that habit out in him.

"Really, I did!  But not cool, mysterious Batman, like in those Tim Burton movies or that new stuff.  I wanted to be like Adam West from the old 60's show.  Desperately.  Even into my early teens."  He smiled again, laughing at the memory of lunchboxes and pyjamas emblazoned with the cartoon bat logo.  Hell, he still had the old lunchbox around somewhere.

"So, I think you have me topped there when it comes to class, mate.  Not that you didn't already."

\----------------

Of course, Batman. A stoic, strong figure with an admirable sense of justice that encouraged him to fight crime. It was perfect for Lestrade, really, and he smiled as Greg told him about it, picturing Greg in one of the old Adam West shows, climbing a brick wall that was clearly painted on the floor with a tilted camera angle. Not dark or brooding or gruff like other incarnations of the hero, but back to the basics. 'Holy fishsticks, Batman' and all that.

"Oh, Gregory, you're rather mistaken if you think there's more or less class to one or the other," Mycroft said. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and pulled it off easily, folding it neatly before placing it next to himself on his side of the booth. It was too hot in the bar for it, and besides, he wanted to be casual in the more casual setting they were in. Greg was making him relax, anyway, so Mycroft felt secure enough to leave a layer of protection off. "You see, we both had noble aims as children, apparently. I wanted to create life and you wanted to defend it. Nothing classless in that."

He loosened his tie next, just enough that he could unbutton the top button of his shirt, finally allowing the skin of his throat a little space to breathe. Sometimes spending all day in a suit and tie was absolutely insufferable. And if the easy conversation continued the way it had been, he might even have to roll his cuffs up again. Twice in one day was practically unprecedented, unless there was some sort of major disaster that took an extended amount of time to deal with. "Besides, it suits you. A noble aim, a strong sense of justice--" _a rather fit body--no, Mycroft, keep your thoughts as polite as your words_ "--a commitment to doing the right thing...all very admirable qualities that you share with your once idol. And you did, in the end, choose a profession that fits with those ideals." He smiled, poised and polite and definitely not trying to get Greg to do that adorable-- _endearing_ \--abashed move again.

Overall, though, he could tell Greg was having a good time. Just from the man's excited tone of voice after Mycroft told him he wanted to be Dr. Frankenstein, it was obvious that he was enjoying himself and more obvious that he was actually interested in what Mycroft had to say. And Mycroft could honestly say that the feeling was mutual, because so far he had been taken in by everything Greg had said about himself, every glimpse into the DI's interior workings. Maybe more taken in than he'd expected, but was that necessarily a bad thing?

\----------------

Mycroft was using words.  Surely he was using words.  They were probably very intelligent words.  Carefully selected, well spoken words.  Yes, there were definitely words.  But Greg seemed unable to hear them, or even the din of the pub, over the rushing of his heartbeat in his ears.  His pulse had started to speed up when Mycroft removed his jacket in one fluid, practiced motion.  That was bad enough.  But the way he reverently folded it and placed it next to him?  Greg felt a little warm flutter in his stomach, warning him of what was potentially coming.  

But when those handsome ( _Christ Greg, what is wrong with you!_ ).  Clever ( _not better!_ )  Lithe ( _that's practically obscene!_ ) _God above._  When Mycroft's completely nondescript and adjective free hands wandered up to loosen his silk tie the DI's body just sort of... overheated.  His pulse thundered, momentarily drowning out any coherent thoughts he could have pieced together as he watched (with what he hoped wasn't too much obvious intensity) the auburn haired man across from him finish getting comfortable.

_This is just because I haven't been interested in anyone in a very, very long time.  God.  I'm just physically frustrated and I'm mentally overreacting.  Ok.  So it's been awhile and I find Mycroft attractive.  That's, this is, well.  Normal.  I just wish I didn't have to be so bloody obvious about it!  I'd blush at the drop of the hat, I swear.  'Specially if it was Mycroft's hat._

_But god, oh god in heaven he's working that top button of his shirt open and oh shit.  Well, so much for being subtle about my feelings.  I'm probably eight shades of scarlet now._

When the DI's hearing returned, he caught the tail end of the compliments that the other man seemed more than happy to bestow upon him.  At first he caught the tone more than the actual words, and it was enough to deepen his blush further.  Reflexively he scrubbed one hand over his face before raking it back through his hair.  The DI tried, and did not succeed, to think of a time after Uni when having a simple conversation with someone (with the added bonus of jacket removal and tie loosening, so racy!) had gotten him so worked up.

Still not quite recovered enough to piece together full sentences, he caught the words 'noble', 'strong', and 'justice' before that posh voice stopped speaking.  Certainly those were **not** directed at him.  Were they?  What had they been talking about?  Right, Adam West.  Well, Batman certainly was all those things, but Mycroft didn't really seem the type to go on about...

_Oh. **Oh.**_

There were two distinct things that were possibly happening, and those were (a) Mycroft was just being genuinely friendly and complimentary and Greg was blowing things out of proportion because of his rapidly developed crush or (b) The British Government was flirting with him.  He wasn't entirely sure; it had been an awful long while and the DI was quite out of practice.  But still.  There was something.  An undertone perhaps?  Subtle as ever, but just enough for his detective's instincts to pick up on.  Or it was merely a foolish hope; the long day and the rare open moments of genuine friendship twisting around in his head to make this something it wasn't'.  That was more likely.  But once the seed had been planted it quickly took root, sending out tendrils and vines into the parts of his brain still left (barely) functioning.

_It can't hurt to check, right?  I mean after all, a guy like that?  If he's not... whatever it is that Sherlock is. 'Passionately disinterested' I believe is his phrase for it this week.  Well if he's not that then he's very likely taken.   Men like Mycroft don't sit on the market for long.  Still, no harm in checking.  Plus, when I find out that he's with someone it'll be so much easier to push all this to the back of my mind._

"I get the feeling we would have been good friends as kids, you know?  When you put it like that, anyway."  He glanced up at Mycroft, who seemed to be studying him intently.  Oh, he was trying not to, but Greg had been working with Sherlock long enough to recognize the deduction-look that normally preceded some great insight.  Now or never.

"R-right then.  So, ah.  Well.  I... I'm not keeping you from anyone at home, am I?  I only ask because I've been on the receiving end of far too many tongue lashings for being out drinking with my mates.  I'd hate to knowingly put someone else in that position." _Wow, Lestrade.  Smooth.  You should change your middle name to Casanova.  Or jump off a bridge.  Whichever one has less paperwork._

\----------------

For a minute, Mycroft honestly thought he might have broken Greg. I mean, by God, the man looked like he had seen a ghost. Or rather a ghost that looked more like a porn star than a spectre. The look Mycroft was catching from him was practically obscene--at least, the staring was, and that blush certainly wasn't helping matters along. Well, it was more like a full flush, turning the detective deep scarlet and making Mycroft wonder what he had done wrong. Or right, depending on what that flush meant, and Mycroft had a very good idea what it meant. He wasn't his brother, after all, and it didn't count as being asexual if you simply weren't interested in many people romantically because not many of them could handle dealing with your intellect.

One of the many other differences between him and his brother was the way they deduced things. Certainly, the basic process was the same, but they both went about it differently; usually, Sherlock's eyes darted rapidly up and down a person as he noted details, formed connections, and then spat the information back out in the least tactful form ever, most often earning him blows. Mycroft, however, took his time. He let his eyes linger in certain places, let them wander almost accidentally from one place to the next, let his brain have a long, slow drink of information before coming to any conclusion. It took a lot longer than Sherly's deductions did, but his were almost always more accurate and in depth. And this was the approach he took with Greg.

First of all, the flush. That could only come from a few possible sources; anger, embarrassment, or arousal were the most likely sources. Anger was right out because Mycroft had said nothing upsetting and that would have been discordant with the entire mood of the conversation. Embarrassment was a possibility--the detective did seem rather bashful around Mycroft in general, as the rubbing of his face and hair indicated--but Mycroft believed that the embarrassment was really due to the main cause; arousal. Well, not necessarily full-blown arousal. But Greg was definitely looking hot under the collar, and it made sense with the other deductions as they continued.

The next thing to consider was what had happened just before Greg's reaction. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, except for him taking off his suit jacket, loosening his tie, and unbuttoning--oh. He'd been undressing in front of Greg. Well, so to speak--there hadn't been much skin shown at all and he was hardly putting on a peep show at the moment--but undressing nonetheless. So. He'd gotten Greg completely flushed and practically undone with just a few sweet words and minimal removal of his clothing. That was valuable information to have.

But still, his final conclusion wasn't reached until he heard the question from Greg. The slightly stuttered, stumbled over question of Mycroft's romantic status. Oh yes. Initial suspicions had been correct and just now confirmed. Greg liked him. Greg liked him a hell of alot, if he was reading the signs right, the rather obvious, red signs across Greg's face that Mycroft was taking a small amount of self-satisfaction in. He hadn't realized quite the effect he had on the man. But now that he did know...

"Oh, not at all," he said in answer to Greg's question, an easy, amiable smile on his lips. "I have no one at home for you to keep me from. Working in the position that I do does not lend itself well to forming attachments, I'm afraid, but not for a lack of effort on my part." He looked down at his wrists and popped one button open, quite slowly, and then the one on the opposite wrist as he continued speaking. "I've really yet to find anyone who really appreciates and is congruent with my...lifestyle. But, if the right person came along, I would be certain to make room for them in my life. Gladly, in fact."

He smiled at Greg again, making sure his blue eyes actually locked with the DI's brown ones before he looked at his cuffs again and began to roll his sleeves up, one at a time and very, very slowly. It was an experiment, really. To see how Greg would react. See if he could get him even more bothered than before. And by sneaking glances at the DI every now and then as he handled his sleeves, he could gauge his reaction in millimeters and fractions of inches. Qualify and quantify, double and triple check. Though his subtle flirting was already doing that for him, and he was finished with the cuffs. "I would ask about your romantic situation but I believe we already covered that earlier today," he said, and the smile accompanying these words was to let Greg know that he knew exactly what was going on. His deductions were finished, his bait was set, and he was ready to see where this went.

\----------------

Greg watched with rapt attention as Mycroft's fingers began to ever so slowly work the buttons of his shirt cuffs, breaking his gaze only when he felt the heat of stormy blue eyes upon him.  Brown eyes flickered up, and his look was immediately caught by Mycroft who held it steadily.  The stare went on a fraction of a moment too long, and Greg felt another wave of heat rush through him.

_It's a good thing I've blushed as red as I can possibly get because good lord, this is indecent!  I mean, we're fully clothed, and we're in public, and somehow this is the closest I've gotten to having an intimate moment with someone since... since... fuck.  I don't even know._

The DI broke eye contact first, focusing intently on the coaster in front of him as if it were the most interesting thing in the room.  It was far from the truth.  He just needed something to ground him in the moment, to anchor him in reality instead of... whatever his muddled brain was creating.  His take on the situation **had** to be colored by his current state of mind.  Because it seemed like Mycroft was deliberately taking his time, working each sleeve up pale forearms with calculated grace, fingers moving at an excruciatingly slow pace that could only be described as 'teasing'.  And that certainly couldn't be the case.  Greg rolled his shoulders in what he hoped wasn't a too-obvious display of his bewilderment, and rubbed the side of his neck with one hand.  Unconsciously, he chewed a little on his bottom lip as Mycroft's sleeves continued to move upward, centimeter by centimeter.

So.  Had he had too many pints?  Had they had any drinks at all?  The pub was noisy and humid, and Greg's skin felt just a shade too tight.  The combination made it hard to think about anything other than the smooth, creamy expanse of skin that kept slowly appearing as cellist's fingers continued their slow, teasing dance.  Finally, after what felt like minutes or possibly hours, Mycroft's words reached his brain.

_Right.  So, nobody at home waiting.  That's good.  Very good.  Isn't it?  Wait what?  No.  Not good.  No, **not** 'not good'.  It's fantastic.  Right?  Fuck.  I can't even make heads or tails out of this... whatever it is.  Well, Lestrade.  The ball's in your court.  Say something.  And try not to trip over your tongue, because surely it's hanging out of your mouth right now.  _

"Right, right.  The job and all that.  Ah.  Yes.  Well, I've been there.  It's bloody hard to find someone who understands, yeah?  My ex always used to say that Scotland Yard was my wife and she was just the weekend mistress."  The silver haired man chuckled, voice only containing the barest hint of bitterness.  "And you know what they say; the man never leaves his wife for the bit he's got on the side.  So, I guess she was right after all."  Once finished, he took a deep breath and focused on getting his runaway heartbeat back to a semi-normal pace.  The DI always knew that one day Sherlock would give him a heart attack, but he never expected that the older Holmes brother would give him heart palpitations.

As Mycroft's last sleeve settled into place with a comfortable pat, he caught the auburn haired man's eyes again.  There was something quite self satisfied there.  Perhaps even... predatory?  Scrutinizing, certainly.  Quite suddenly Greg felt a bit like a mouse being toyed with by a large, ginger tom.   Well hell.  If that wasn't a sign, then Lestrade wasn't sure what was.  It had been a while, but usually when someone looked at you like **that** they were flirting.  The DI's thoughts briefly rewound, thinking back to their car ride to the pub and how Mycroft's hand stayed on his for just a hair too long.  How honest and open the other man had been all evening.  Smiling genuinely.  Offering personal information.  Laughing.  Sharing in Greg's sorrows.  

_Well, I may not be a Holmes and I'm sorely out of practice but I think I can deduce what's going on here.  May as well take the plunge.  Worst outcome is a whole lot of embarrassment  and I honestly don't know that I could be more flustered than I am right now.  And if I don't say something the bloody handsome git is likely to keep toying with me all evening.  And if my heart starts pounding any harder I'm going to end up in surgery by the end of the night._

Greg put on his best 'charming' smile, which he was certain was diluted by the rosy blush that seemed to cover him from head to toe.  Brown eyes narrowed slightly, and he took a deep breath to steady himself before speaking.

"You're really something else, Mycroft Holmes.  You know that?  Because, and ah... well.  I could be wrong here, but I'm pretty sure that you're either trying some sort of unholy Sherlock-style experiment on me, or you're flirting.  And...  um... well.  I really hope that it's the flirting thing."

\----------------

Mycroft casually watched Greg come apart before his eyes, each subtle glance towards him revealing a new piece of the DI coming off as he watched Mycroft in turn. A hand over the hair, a bite of the lip, and that same deep blush throughout...it was shockingly intimate, considering the looks being shared were between a divorced DI and the main part of the British Government. An officer and a diplomat, so to speak. The romance novel practically wrote itself.

But it was a wonderful novel, if it was one. Here they were, two men who were connected by a thread in the form of a sociopathic drug addict and who shared an unwillingness to open up and some extremely thick emotional boundaries, talking and laughing and flirting like they were absolutely normal. Whole. Undamaged. And maybe that was Mycroft found it so wonderful when Greg admitted his interest in the smallest way he could. Because he was actually starting to see this as more than flirting, as an opportunity for something, though he didn't know what that something was just yet. At the moment, it was just an opportunity. A unique situation to find himself in.

And fascinating as well. The other man's reactions to him were truly fascinating, and Mycroft was flattered to be able to produce such a profound effect with such simple gestures. For someone who rarely dated--and rarely had any type of romantic interest period--it was wonderful to watch. And perhaps he shouldn't make light of the DI's obvious difficulty handling his emotions, but any guilt that might have existed before was swept away when Greg spoke.

So. No one at home, just like Mycroft. Interested in Mycroft. Wanted to believe that Mycroft was flirting with him. And painfully, painfully aware of every inch of skin that Mycroft showed, if his reactions were anything to go by. And his reactions told Mycroft everything he needed to know, even before Greg decided to reveal himself. Although he was very glad that he did. He was sure that he could have gotten something out of Greg with more coaxing--or perhaps with more clothing removal or flirting, he wondered if the man would have lost it completely if he removed his tie and undid another button--but it was better that they cover this now, saving the time that would have been wasted dithering around it. Besides, that smile Greg was giving him right now was absolutely delightful.

He smiled at Greg, letting a little coyness into it, because if there was one thing Mycroft Holmes could do, it was be diplomatic. No matter what that entailed. "No, Gregory, I am not as cruel as my brother. I am intentionally flirting with you, I do hope you're not offended by it." No, he knew Greg wasn't offended by it, but perhaps it was better to make it seem like it was harder for him to read the DI than it actually was. It was always valuable to keep that information to himself, for the time being.

"You see, Gregory--" and here he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together, eyes on Greg because if he was going to play all his cards, he wanted to watch Greg as he played them "--I didn't agree to go out with you for drinks for any reason other than because it both seemed like we could use a break from our work and tension was high between us this evening. You have, however, changed any opinion I may have previously had about you this evening. I find you to be an intelligent, interesting, and attractive individual. One who is particularly susceptible to hot flashes at the undoing of my buttons, but a wonderful individual nonetheless. And you seemed to be similarly interested in me, so I engaged you. So yes, I am quite intentionally flirting with you."

\----------------

When Mycroft gave him a coy smile and leaned forward over the table, the DI had the distinct sensation of the bottom dropping out of his stomach.  It was like he had hit the apex of a roller coaster hill, and he was getting ready to plummet down a track that he couldn't quite see well enough to navigate.  The conversation had a course of its own now, and it was pretty much all Greg could do to hold on and try not to act too much like a fool.  It was hard enough to do with Mycroft confirming the flirtatious intention of his actions (and oh, what actions they were), but when the his elegant companion started praising him it was almost too much.  Lestrade felt a bit like he was in free-fall.  Praise was one thing, but to be praised by Mycroft for being intelligent?  Interesting?  Attractive?  It almost boggled the DI's mind.

By the time the auburn haired man across from him reached the end of his speech Greg knew he was gaping like a fish, but he couldn't help it.  As much as he had hoped he was reading Mycroft's actions correctly he hadn't actually allowed himself to hope that it was actually possible.  He almost regretted saying something outright; now that the truth was on the table he felt a bit adrift.  It had been so long since he had flirted, let alone pursued things any further...  There was a hesitation borne of uncertainty to his actions now.  How to respond?  It was like trying to remember the steps to a dance long forgotten.

"Well, right.  Offended?  No.  God no.  It's good.  Good, with the flirting and...  Ah... Because well... you said it much better than I did but yeah.  I'm not sure how we got from almost fighting to here in the span of a car ride, but it works.  I mean, I've always liked you.  As a bloke, you know.  You're classy, smart as the devil himself, and well... I don't know how else to say it but you're **good**.  It's never been lost on me, you know. You might do pretty well at putting up a front of indifference, but you care an awful lot about doing right by your brother and doing what's best for Britain, even at the cost of your own comfort.  That's what good men do, I suppose.  Sacrifice.  So... maybe it's not all that unexpected.  It's not a large step from admiration to... affection."  

Greg smiled warmly, locking his gaze with Mycroft's as if to try and forge a tangible connection.  He wanted the other man to feel the truth of his words... and well, those eyes were quite something to behold.  His irises were swirling miasmas of grey and blue, like a cloudy British sky.  They suited the other man well.  Right.  Well.  If they were openly flirting now, he should probably tell Mycroft that.  Or compliment him in some way.  He may be out of practice, but it was probably too early to start complimenting specific body parts.  If Mycroft was flirting with him then his physical interest had obviously not gone unnoticed, though, so following that path seemed to be the natural course of their conversation.  Greg spared a moment to wonder where it might lead, but decided against it.  For now, it was best to enjoy the moment and enjoy just basking in Mycroft's flirtations and return them in kind.  There was no reason to waste any time speculating where things would lead when there was so much to be enjoyed in the moment.

"And it's hardly my bloody fault I'm burning up over here, with you being indecent about your buttons and all.  Seriously man.  I should have you arrested for licentious behavior in public.  It ah... well it doesn't help things that you're bloody gorgeous, you know that?"  He let a little wolfishness creep into his grin, feeling a bit more comfortable as he succeeded in making the British Government color just slightly at his remark.  Right,  flirting was a bit of give and take then, wasn't it.  He was starting to remember the dance steps, and the idea of waltzing with Mycroft for awhile was quite nice.  Quite nice indeed.

"So.  Now that I'm onto your game are you going to stop with the buttons, or is there a bit more of that in store?"  His grin deepened, and brown eyes sparkled as he matched Mycroft's coy gaze.  "After all, a gent could use a warning if you're going to... well... flirt like that.  Gives me a chance to get my footing, so to speak.  I'm a bit out of practice, you know.  And I'm having a great time.  I'd hate for you to do something forward like unexpectedly take off your tie.  I might have a heart attack and miss the show."

\----------------

Well, clearly Greg hadn't been expecting quite that amount of honesty from Mycroft, if the man's gaping look of shock was anything to go by. Luckily he recovered quickly, and when he did, it was a beautiful recovery. A slow one, yes, because he had to warm up with some light flattery first before that lovely charming smile came out and Greg seemed to remember what he was doing. How this worked. And then Mycroft was suddenly swimming in positive attention and any inferences he'd been making were thrown out the window because he wasn't thinking clearly at the moment.

It started out fine. When Greg first complimented him, he could merely smile and accept it as the man continued talking. A slight warmth was spreading across his chest, yes, that much was obvious, and he was sincerely enjoying the conversation, but then Greg started talking about him being a good man. Him. Mycroft Holmes. Considering who that was coming from, it was nearly laughable and certainly ironic. Mycroft was nowhere near the same caliber of man as Gregory Lestrade, and he didn't feel he deserved the title being bestowed upon him, but it meant a lot considering who it was coming from. And then Greg was calling him gorgeous and Mycroft couldn't help a faint blush from sprinkling across his cheeks.

He was...unused to compliments. That was the easiest way to put it. He didn't get them often and if he did they usually weren't meant sincerely, and the genuine ones that he got? Well, for some funny reason they didn't make him feel like Greg's were making him feel right now. This whole thing was so very unusual. Mycroft was usually so very well put-together, and here Greg was, making him come undone. Just a little. Ruffling his feathers, a little, so to speak, and in the best way Mycroft could hope for. He was rather enjoying this, blush and all. And since Greg had so kindly pointed out the effect of Mycroft's actions, it was Mycroft's turn. Time to play.

"I must give you fair warning, then," he said, leaning forward towards Greg across the table, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I might remove my tie during the course of this conversation.  And we wouldn't want you to have a heart attack over that, now would we? Not when we're just getting to know each other." Not that that was why he wasn't moving to remove his tie at the moment, oh no. He wanted to wait and use that as a quick distraction for the detective, or for any time in the conversation when Greg made him feel the same way the DI had felt when Mycroft was unbuttoning. It would only be fair if Greg did, after all.

"Now, seeing as this has become more than two men going out for a drink, may I put myself forward as the gentleman and offer to get you a drink? I'm afraid we've been sitting here for quite some time with our original purpose completely forgotten. Not that I mind, of course." He let his voice slip just a little lower in tone, towards a more seductive, slightly deeper voice that seemed to work wonders on difficult--and flirtatious--diplomats. "I'd be content to stay here with you all night with no drinks whatsoever, but it is only proper of me to offer."

\----------------

The combination of Mycroft's threat to take off his tie, coupled with the posh man's deepened voice set Greg's nerves to humming.  Each syllable was like long, elegant fingers ghosting up his spine; each carefully chosen word sending reverberations tingling across his skin.  The air between them crackled with a playful energy.  The DI raked a hand through his hair once again, taking a deep breath to steady himself before answering.

"Good lord, man.  Has anyone ever denied you anything that you asked for using that voice?  I'm pretty sure you could talk someone into handing over a country if you kept on like that."  He smiled, hoping that the genuineness of it made up for his ridiculous blush.  "I'd... yeah.  I'd love a drink.  Thanks."  Greg fought back the urge to rake his hand through his hair again; he'd be bald by the end of the evening if he let that particular quirk keep going unchecked.  God, Mycroft had him acting like a giddy teenager.  That was probably because he **felt** like a giddy teenager.  This evening was the first happily surprising thing that had happened to the silver haired in quite some time.  

Their playful banter was enlivening, and Greg had to spare a moment to wonder how long he had been stumbling through the  'status quo', unaware of the amazing possibility set right before him.  The evening felt surreal in the best of ways, like a hazy dream.  A sudden moment of panic settled in his chest at the thought; suddenly the whole wonderful situation felt ephemeral.  Like a bubble that could so easily be popped, breaking the evening's magical spell and causing everything to return back to the dreary normal routines of his daily existence.  Without thinking, the DI reached out for Mycroft's hand as the other man rose smoothly to retrieve their drinks.  The intertwining of their hands was a touch more than friendly, but not quite a fully intimate interlacing of fingers.

"Hey... I just wanted to.  You know.  Thank you.  This is lovely, Mycroft.  Really lovely.  The best time I've had in I don't know how long.  But ah... I.  I don't..."  He grimaced, trying to find the right words to express his gratitude, his amazement, his worry.  But nothing came.  "I don't know.  I... just... Thank you.  Just thank you."  He squeezed Mycroft's hand gently before letting it slide from his grasp, brown eyes casing a wholly appreciative gaze up at his now-standing seatmate. "Thank you for taking me up on a drink, thank you for putting up with my blushing and stammering and stale attempts at flirting.  You're amazing, you know that?  You really are.  And I just... thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who commented / bookmarked / kudos-ed us last week! Every single one made us smile. The good news is that we aim to update every Thursday from here forward, so we'll be seeing you next week, our lovely Mystrade friends! - Mazi and Cheshire


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft and Greg's date continues to progress, the pair get to know each other better, and things get interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Chapter Three: Mild to moderate depictions of violence, mentions of drug use, nightmares

Mycroft wasn't sure what to say for a minute. Greg was...thanking him? For taking him out? For the entire evening so far? This hardly seemed fair, considering Mycroft was enjoying himself more than he had in...oh, well, probably years. But once again, the DI was so absolutely good-natured that he felt the need to thank Mycroft for the evening, slipping in another few compliments as well. No, no, that wouldn't do at all. Mycroft owed Greg more than Greg owed him, and he wanted to make that much clear.

He picked up the DI's retracted hand and gently pressed his lips to it, like they were being introduced at an elegant dinner party and not in the middle of an impromptu quasi date in a pub. "Really, Gregory, you sell yourself far too short," he said, and held onto the hand as he continued speaking. "I should be thanking you for the absolutely delightful time I'm having with you. You shouldn't underestimate the effect that you yourself have." And with that, he kissed his hand again and left to get drinks.

He meant it, too. He'd sincerely misjudged Gregory Lestrade, if this evening was anything to go by, and the fact that they had almost missed out on this was astounding. If Greg hadn't asked or if Mycroft hadn't accepted or if they'd never met in the first place or hated each other or if something, anything had been different, this might never have happened, and that thought was sad and slightly terrifying. Mycroft could have been sitting in his office right now, still working on papers and other people's problems while Greg went home alone and commiserated with himself about the divorce with a bottle of scotch. Instead, the evening was rife with possibility and they had both, for once, allowed themselves to breathe. It was, Mycroft reflected as he waited at the bar, astounding.

Once he'd obtained drinks he came back to the table--Greg was still there, that was a good sign--and set both tall glasses down. "I thought we'd try these two, they sounded interesting. I must admit I am a neophyte in the world of beer, but I was assured these were both very enjoyable brews," he said, taking his seat across from Greg. "The one in front of you is a milk porter and I have a coffee porter. Shall we try them?"

\-------------

Greg's breath caught in his throat as Mycroft's soft lips brushed against the back of his hand.  The gesture was so amazingly unexpected that he sat in stunned silence as the now de-jacketed man once again knocked the wind out of him with his well spoken and somehow sincere compliments.  Amazing.  That bloody man was just amazing.  Greg continued to sit, dazed and somewhat dumbstruck as Mycroft finished his praise and pressed another kiss to the back of his hand before turning away and striding over to the bar.

Once the tall auburn haired man had crossed the room the DI let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding.  His heart, which had settled down somewhat since arriving at the bar, began jackhammering in his chest once again.  Jesus.  This was... Amazing?  Incredible?  Astounding?  The words didn't seem to do his good fortune justice.  Somehow, despite the wall of long practiced friendly professionalism he put between himself and everyone he met, Mycroft saw **him**.  Not the DI, not his brother's keeper, or the recent divorcee.  Just... Greg Lestrade.  The bloody brilliant man had managed to overcome Greg's well practiced defenses in the span of a short car ride.  He chuckled at the imagery his thoughts called up; Mycroft kitted out in armor leading a charge over an imposing stone wall.  And somehow, without meaning to, he got the impression that he had snuck around the labyrinthine layers of walls that the British Government had put in place.  

So here they were, on a sort-of, kind-of, maybe-just-now-turned-into-a-date date.  The silver haired man drummed his fingers on the polished wood of their table as he considered the potential implications of their situation.  A drink between mates ended when both parties were tired and ready to go their separate ways.  Dates... well.  Dates were different.  Trickier.  So.  That begged the question, Greg supposed, of where exactly he wanted the evening to go.

Well, after that amazingly chaste kiss to the back of his hand he knew what his body wanted, at least.  There was no denying the electric shiver that passed through him at the fleeting contact, or how his mind inevitably wandered to the thought how how those clever lips would feel pressed against his own.  But just because his body was starved for attention didn't mean that it was the right time to indulge it.  Not, mind you, that he would object in any fashion should the evening head that way.  It just wasn't his main goal.  As he swirled the ideas around in his mind, it became blatantly clear what he wanted.  What he had been enjoying the most during their short time together; simple companionship and familiarity.  He wanted, more than anything, to continue to get to know all the amazing hidden facets of Mycroft Holmes.

As the other man returned with the drinks he had so chivalrously ordered for the both of them, Lestrade greeted him with a beaming smile.  Yes.  This was good.  Better than good.  Unexpected, breathtaking, and a bit scary if only due to the suddenness of it all, but good.  Very, very good.  As Mycroft settled in across from him Greg eyed his drink appreciatively.  One of the few things that happened in this whirlwind evening that wasn't unexpected was Mycroft's continued good taste in well, everything.  Everything except possibly blushing, stammering DI's.

"God, that looks great.  Just great!  Thanks you."  He tried to get the words out without another wave of heat rising to his face, but the memory of Mycroft's response to his last round of appreciation still burned in his mind.  Centering himself, the DI cleared his throat as he pushed the thoughts of Mycroft's lips to the back of his mind and focused on his actual goal.  "So, I've been thinking.  I know about young Mycroft Holmes, the aspiring mad scientist.  And I obviously am familiar with Mycroft Holmes the adult.  So tell me, what was Mycroft Holmes like at Uni?"  Greg shot him an easy grin as his brown eyes sparkled.  "Get up to any mischief?  Succeed in creating life once you had access to a proper chem lab?"

\----------------

It was really hard to refrain from using the term 'adorable' when thinking about Greg. Mycroft kept having to come up with suitable alternatives as he kept his eyes on the seemingly constantly blushing DI who was so easy to knock off balance but always recovered so well. Charming was the latest word he'd chosen, and it seemed to fit well. Perfectly, actually, as Greg shot him that easy smile with sparkling brown eyes. God, he was absolutely charming and Mycroft was having a little trouble focusing on formalities when he looked at him like that...

Mycroft mentally shook himself out of it and focused on the words that were actually coming out of Greg's mouth. Not the mouth itself, because that was a bad train of thought to follow, but definitely the words themselves. Right. Uni. He couldn't help the slight look of displeasure that crossed his face. University hadn't exactly been his finest hour. "No, no life was created I'm afraid," he said, putting on a good-natured smile to match Greg's own. "I only had a very short window of time in which I was...undisturbed, at Uni. I was only in my second year when I was approached by the government, and from that moment on there has been no peace in my life." His smile was dry at this, the statement slightly humorous, but absolutely true.

He took a sip of his coffee porter, enjoying the rich, full taste of the beer. A good choice, then. "So I was only granted a small amount of time to myself before my work began, although I cannot say that I regret it. My first year was rather uneventful. I didn't entirely fit in with the general student body." And by that he actually meant that it had been a desperately lonely time he'd rather not revisit at all. Always far too posh and smart to fit in with the general population, who thought they were smarter than they were and ostracized him when they realized that there were people out there like him. People who put them to shame, because Mycroft could solve the same problem that had been plaguing them for years in a few days. It wasn't a place that he had really belonged at, because he didn't fit in. So when the government approached him, he jumped at the chance for a higher purpose, a more meaningful life. A place to fit in.

It occurred to him that he should be telling Greg all of this, that of all people, Greg could empathize simply because Greg had empathized with everything said up until this point, but he didn't want to put a damper on the tone, and there were plenty of other things about his time at Uni that he wanted to hide. So instead he put on his best charming smile, dropped his voice into the tone Greg had liked so much earlier, and said, "But there was a fair share of mischief in my teenage years, I must admit. Taking care of Sherlock nearly drove me insane, so I had to find other ways to...relieve my stress. What about you, Gregory? You must have been quite the rake in your youth."

\----------------

Chestnut brown eyes noted the subtle, fleeting look of dysphoria that crossed Mycroft's face before the ever-present composure settled in again.  Greg couldn't help but feel, watching those features settle into a politician's smile, that some important door was closing.  Not forever, perhaps.  But at least for now.  He wanted to reach out to reassure the other man somehow.  To tell Mycroft that he didn't have to be so damn guarded, that he could tell Greg anything.   **Anything.**  Because of all people, the DI suspected, he knew what kind of lonely hell the exhausted government official had been living in.  Public service was largely thankless and separated you from just about everything and everyone else around you.  People became, well... it was hard to admit it but people became problems to solve, in a way.  With no family to speak of except his ever-troublesome brother in addition to his incredible intellect... Well.  The DI harbored strong suspicions that the isolating nature of the work hit Mycroft harder than most.

Still, despite knowing each other for quite some time, they had only really begun to become close this particular evening.  It seemed unfair to ask Mycroft to divulge everything about himself.  Intellectually, it made sense to let the auburn haired man slip behind some of his defensive walls.  Emotionally, though, it stung just a bit.  Greg felt like he was giving up hard-fought ground in some sort of secret war.  Fortunately his mobile buzzed, knocking him out of his hyperbolic imaginings.  Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, but the DI simply shrugged and let the call go to voicemail without even checking the incoming number.

"Eh.  Nobody calls me but work these days.  And for once," he smiled at Mycroft again, gratefulness radiating from him.  "I have something much, much better to do than go back to The Yard."

"But me?  A rake?  You make it sound so romantic!  No, not at all.  I was one of those obnoxious latecomers to the punk scene in my teenage years, you know?  Not the good bit from the seventies, mind you.  I was too young for that.  No, we're talking mid-eighties, leather jacket, ripped jeans, terrible hair, safety pin in the ear, that whole lot.  But, uh, other than the smoking and the occasional drink I wasn't actually all that much of an anarchist."  Greg smiled again, features set in a combination of fond nostalgia and sadness.  "Guess I had enough anarchy in certain parts of my life that I didn't really think to seek it out in other places.  But other than the odd bit of vandalism and public indecency the boys I ran with weren't too bad."  His phone began to buzz again, this time the shorter vibration marking it as an incoming text.  Probably just Donovan keeping him up to date on the latest developments in the whole drug ring / trafficking case.  With the agonizingly slow pace things had been working at, it was certain to be nothing that couldn't wait until morning.

"I lost touch with a lot of it when I went to Uni, though.  Most've the guys I ran with went off do to other non-uni things, we lost touch, and that was that.  I grew my hair out, took out the safety pin, and eventually started wearing jeans that were more denim than hole.  But, ah.  I still listen to The Ramones, The Damned, you name it.  So it's not quite all out of my system I suppose."  When his phone buzzed again, three times in rapid succession, Greg rolled his eyes and finally acquiesced to its demand for his attention.  "I'm sorry.  I really should check to at least make sure they haven't set the bloody building on fire without me."

The call, as suspected, was from Donovan.  So were the messages.  Greg could feel the color drain from his face as he scrolled through them, vaguely aware of the sound of Mycroft's mobile going off.

**Sir, you need to call me back. It's important.**

**We need you down at the Yard.**

**Scratch that.  If you're in transport, come to the hospital instead.  St. Bart's.**

**Sherlock's been hurt.  They're admitting him now.  Bring that brother of his if you can find him.**

She didn't refer to him as 'freak'.  She didn't insult Mycroft, or tease Greg like she normally would have.  So.  Whatever happened to Sherlock, it was serious enough to have even Donovan concerned.  Greg raised his head to inform Mycroft of the information he had just received, but judged by the look on the other man's face that his own messages contained the same information.  Wanting to waste no time, he pulled himself out of the booth, offering his hand to Mycroft.

"Let's go, then."

\----------------

As soon as Greg's mobile went off, Mycroft knew. He didn't actually know for certain, his powers of deduction hadn't noted a certain urgency to the vibration of the phone or anything, it was entirely based on the feeling in his gut that said something was very, very wrong. And he'd been so enjoying himself, too. Listening to Greg talk about being a punk, basking in that wonderful warm smile when Greg said he had something much better to do than go into the Yard. This, Mycroft supposed, was his punishment for taking a night off. Something terrible had happened, and he knew it even before his own mobile went off in his pocket.

**Sherlock. St. Bart's. Injured. Come at once.**

And just like that, Mycroft's whole world caved in on itself.

People didn't really understand his relationship with Sherlock. They didn't get why Mycroft couldn't look after him himself, if he was so concerned, if Mycroft was telling the truth and Sherlock had been his whole world as soon as he was born. It was true, though. Absolutely true. From that day forward, Mycroft had been responsible for his little brother, had been completely committed to keep him safe, as hard as that was when Sherlock was stubborn as a mule and determined to do what he wanted no matter how dangerous it was. So Mycroft was left hiding in the shadows, orchestrating everything from the wings and often seeming to delegate care of his little brother to others. Like Greg. But his physical absence did not mean for one second that he took his eyes off of Sherlock.

There were moments, of course, brief moments when he himself couldn't be watching the monitors, when he had to let others do the actual legwork for him. Tonight, of all nights, had been one of those times. He had taken a break from his work, and subsequently a break from Sherlock. What exactly had he been thinking? Taking the man who usually watched Sherlock out for a few drinks, so they were both unavailable should something happen. He checked his texts from Sherlock, but of course there were none. Which meant that Sherlock hadn't thought it was dangerous enough--or difficult enough--to warrant his help and if he had been injured--not like the selfish brat would have told him anyway--he was too injured to text.

It wasn't worth worrying about until he knew the actual extent of Sherlock's injuries anyway. There was no way to know, though if he was in critical condition the text would have said so. Less serious then. He slipped his mobile back into his pocket, acutely aware now that Greg must have been receiving the same information, which was confirmed when the DI spoke. And the hand. Usually Mycroft wouldn't have accepted any hand, but this was different. Greg wasn't doing it to be condescending or because he actually thought Mycroft needed support, he was doing it because it was...well, it was just right. The right thing, considering the evening so far as well as what had just happened.

From any other person at any other time, Mycroft would have rejected it. But this was different. So he stood up and took Greg's hand in his own, intertwining their fingers as they walked back towards the entrance to the pub. Maybe it was odd to be holding his hand, maybe it had just been a friendly offer to help get up and not anything more, and maybe Mycroft was holding on a little tighter than he intended, but the fact remained that he needed this more than he had previously thought. Not just the hand holding specifically, but Greg in general. A shoulder to lean on. Someone to carry a little bit of the burden for him. And, he reflected as they walked out the entrance, maybe he could shoulder some of Greg's burdens too.

Unfortunately, that was when the firing started.

\----------------

Despite their current circumstances, Greg was pleasantly surprised when Mycroft not only took his proffered hand but continued to hold onto it as they made their way to the entrance of the pub.  Their fingers intertwined, long pale digits wrapping around Greg's shorter tanned fingers like they were meant to fit together; interlocking puzzle pieces that had not until this very moment known they were even part of the same set.  

_Jesus Lestrade!  Stop and think for god's sake.  This is **not** the time for bloody romanticism._

They strode through the crowd with purpose, something about the forcefulness of their pace encouraging the patrons to easily allow them to pass.  Despite his own mental admonishments to direct his thoughts elsewhere, the DI couldn't help but steal a glance at Mycroft's face as they neared the entrance.  Something hollow settled in the pit of his stomach as he noted the expressionless mask that had settled over those fine boned features.  Previously warm blue eyes had gone hard and icy, focused intensely on some abstract point in the distance, thoughts obviously turned inward.  Without thinking, Greg gave the man's hand a very soft, very brief reassuring squeeze as they passed through the front door and out onto the dark street.  Greg turned to man beside him to inquire about the information Mycroft had received and to offer his own in return so they could both attempt to make more sense of the situation during what was sure to be a tortuously long drive to the hospital.

That was when the gunfire rang out through the street like a whip crack.

Conscious thought immediately ceased and years of training and experience kicked in as adrenaline coursed through his system.  Instinctively Greg shouldered himself into Mycroft, pushing them both to the ground.  He indelicately landed atop the taller man, protectively covering him with his body momentarily while waiting for a break in the fire.  It came almost instantly as the shooter ran to another position, most likely one where he could hit his targets now that they were flattened out on the sidewalk.

"Get ready to move," he growled to Mycroft.  "Try to get over between the line of parked cars if you can."  Lestrade didn't wait for an affirmative, instead pushing himself upward hard enough to scrape his palms on the concrete.  He moved immediately to a couple standing frozen in shock in front of the pub.  The DI grabbed them both, pulling them roughly aside and barking "Down!" as his eyes scanned up the street trying to identify the source of the gunfire.  Brown eyes blazed as he tried to pick out the most likely shooter from the handful of panicked pedestrians scattering from the street.  One in particular caught his eye; a man of medium build, face obscured by the shadow of his hoodie, but he disappeared into a building and another three shots rang out down the street.  Lestrade retreated back to Mycroft's position, arriving at the suited man's side as the very nearby screech of tires caused his head to whip around behind them.

Fortunately one of Mycroft's ever present black cars had been waiting down the road, drawn immediately to the scene by the shots.  The driver was good, **very** good; in a matter of seconds she had gotten as close as she could to the pair, no heed given to how the vehicle was blocking traffic.  Once the car was in position she threw the door open and pulled a small pistol from a holster at her side.  She then used the door as cover as she rose and scanned the street to identify the source of the incoming fire.  Of course Mycroft's drivers would be bodyguards as well.  It hadn't occurred to the DI before, but he was certainly grateful for the additional assistance.  It was only a few meters to the car, and Greg knew that they had just moments to take the opportunity before the would-be assassin recovered from the very likely unexpected return fire and began shooting again.

He got to his feet as quickly as he could and grabbed Mycroft by the arm, positioning the man so that Greg was on the side exposed to the most likely direction of the gunfire.  As they ran towards the waiting vehicle, they collided with another person stuck in the street.  Lestrade actually had to forcibly move the stunned man out of his way, grabbing him by the shoulders and roughly shoving him aside with another growled order of "Get down!" before they skirted around him and continued to head towards the refuge of Mycroft's waiting vehicle.

As they neared the car the DI became painfully aware of a stitch in his side.  Breathing burned, and he cursed his aging body as he pushed Mycroft into the backseat of the car before following him in and yanking the door shut behind them.  A few more shots rang out, but the driver had retreated back to her seat and was busy throwing the car into gear.  The vehicle lurched as she punched the engine.  She tore off down the street, bobbing and weaving the car in and out of traffic like some sort of mad ballet dancer.  The impact of acceleration knocked what little breath Greg had from him, and he gasped slightly.  Man, he really was getting old.  Time to start going back to the gym then, instead of simply trying to stay in shape at home.  Breathing continued to burn, and instead of subsiding it seemed to be getting worse; an angry, stabbing sensation that throbbed with every movement of his lungs

He instinctively put his hand to his side and nearly passed out as his fingers sank into something open and wet in his side.  Warmth rushed over his hand and he jerked it back, looking at it in sheer astonishment.  When had that happened?  It wasn't a bullet wound, he determined, mostly because he was still moving and conscious.  Dimly, he remembered the stabbing sensation beginning as he moved the pedestrian out of their path to the car...  It didn't really matter what happened.  As long as Mycroft was safe, everything would be fine.  He cast a glance over at the man next to him as he pressed his hand back to his side in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.  He felt oddly lightheaded, and grinned at the thin-lipped expression on Mycroft's pale face.  What a spectacular train-wreck of a date.  Definitely one for the record-books.  

"Good thing... we were... already going... to the hospital," he managed to gasp out.  "You're not... hurt, are... you?"

\----------------

Mycroft had approximately three seconds to register the sound of gunfire before he was shoved to the ground by Greg and everything was rapidly going to hell. For once in his life, his mind was absolutely blank and he had to just trust Greg and listen to him, staying down in his same position as he dazedly watched Greg--ever the hero, wasn't he just wonderful like that?--head over to get more civilians down in safe positions, completely disregarding his own personal safety. Mycroft was used to that, as he was usually the one being protected and not the protector, but it made his stomach clench when he saw Greg throwing himself so willingly into the line of fire.

But there wasn't time to think at the moment, everything was action, action, action, and Mycroft's usually rapid-fire brain was slowing down to a crawl, registering single details at a time that were important in a rush of adrenaline while the back of his brain whirred away as usual, filing away the little things that would be important later but were unnecessary at the moment. What was important? Greg. Right. Where had Greg gone? As soon as the question was in his mind Greg was back by his side and Mycroft was glad to see that, as far as he could tell, the other man was unharmed.

Then, finally, the cavalry came. Well, not the cavalry, but Michelle, and Michelle was as close to the cavalry as they were going to get at the moment. She was an excellent driver, an excellent bodyguard as well, and Mycroft would have to remind himself later to thank her somehow for reacting so quickly and efficiently so Greg wasn't on his own. Though Greg was doing a beautiful job of it, protecting him and covering him as he led him to the car. That was, until he had to move someone from their path forcibly, Mycroft was left uncovered, and one gunshot went far astray.

Pain. Pain exploding in his arm and his hand was on it, covering it, as he was pushed into the car, Greg shortly behind, and they were off again. Right. The hospital. Sherlock. Suddenly, the pain in his arm was third priority, his brother second, and Greg, who was clearly bleeding, the first. It took a minute for Greg's words to register in his mind--he was panting, losing blood, stab wound, man in the street, surveillance footage, they couldn't have been that careful--and then he removed his right hand from where it had been covering the bullet wound in his left arm, the shot making the limb deadened, useless for the time being.

"You need to stop your bleeding," he managed to get out after a few tries, using his right hand to pull the handkerchief out of his breast pocket. He twisted his wrist so he could press it, awkwardly, to Greg's wound, trying to keep even pressure on the wound without hurting the other man. Bloody brilliant, he couldn't actually do anything useful with just one arm, though thank God it had been his left and not his right. "Hold this," he told Greg, and waited until the other man complied to pull his phone out of his pocket, quickly dialing the first of numerous emergency contacts. Michelle was trying to ask him if he was alright from the front seat but he ignored her for the moment, barking out orders when the call was picked up on the second ring. Videos needed to be watched, evidence taken, suspects questioned and put into custody, the sooner the better.

Mycroft was no stranger to assassination attempts due to his position, but this, he was sure, was not meant for him. He had been much more vulnerable than Greg but Greg had been specifically targeted, meaning this probably had to do with Sherlock and his little attack. But even though it hadn't been meant for him, now that Mycroft had been threatened, the entire British government was out for blood. Whoever did this would be found and quickly dealt with, and all Mycroft had to do was make a few phone calls and send a few texts. Oh, and bandage up Greg.

"Yes, Michelle, I'm fine, it was in the arm, I'll heal. Detective Lestrade, however, has a stab wound, so a little alacrity would be appreciated," Mycroft snapped back to the front seat, and then turned to Lestrade, phone still up to his ear. "How are you feeling?"

\----------------

As Mycroft ordered him to hold his handkerchief (which likely cost more than Greg's entire outfit, thank you very much) to his side, all the silver haired man could do was simply admire the brusque efficiency with which the other man took charge of the situation.  Lestrade had seen seasoned officers have more nerves after a shootout than Mycroft was currently displaying.  The man didn't take any time to dither or recover from their assault, he simply handed Greg the means to take care of himself and got directly to work.  Not many people would have expected the steel under the fine suiting, but Lestrade knew that the politician was made of sterner stuff than his manner of dress characterized.  

Mycroft's poshly accented voice was clipped as he barked out a series of instructions to what Greg could only assume was some shadowy government team well versed in dealing with these types of assassination attempts.  If he hadn't been in so much pain he would have just a hair of sympathy to spare for the would-be assassins; Mycroft Holmes was a dangerous enough man to piss off on a good day.  With his nerves already frayed from the long day and news of his brother laid up in the hospital god alone knew how the man would react.  But they had stabbed him and tried to shoot Mycroft, so Greg's almost-sympathies were short lived.  Let the fuckers rot in some horrid secret government detention facility.  It was the least they deserved.

As the car picked up speed, the veil of lightheadedness temporarily lifted and Greg felt acutely aware of the enormity of the situation.  Sherlock, in the hospital and injured to an unknown degree.  And almost immediately afterward, this attempt on Mycroft.  Had Sherlock been injured in an effort to draw his elder brother out?  From what he could tell Mycroft rarely left his office at the Diogenes Club or his home; and Lestrade felt an awful pang of guilt slice through him, complimenting the stabbing ache in his side.  He had promised that nothing would happen to the crazy consulting detective.  Had promised Mycroft that his brother would be safe.  But he had unthinkingly asked him out for drinks in the middle of a case they were both involved in.  He was the one responsible for the change in the politician's habits.  Whoever had been watching them must have realized the opportunity that Greg inadvertently presented and struck.  His own stupid impulses were to blame for both Holmes brothers being in danger.  Idiot.  Vaguely he was aware of Mycroft turning away from his phone, inquiring about Greg's condition.

"I'll... I'm fine.  Just... ship-shape.  Really."  Greg attempted a smile, but feared it came out as more of a grimace as the car shifted in traffic, causing an uncomfortable change in his position.  As the car moved, streetlights filtered in through the darkly tinted windows and the interior of the car illuminated briefly.  Greg's heart caught in his throat.  No, he hadn't just put both Mycroft and Sherlock in danger.  He had gotten them both injured.  Lestrade carefully eyed the other man, noticing the dark wet patch spreading across the upper sleeve of his left arm, and the awkward way which it hung from Mycroft's shoulder.

“Jesus.  Don't... worry about... me," he managed to say, breath still coming in short gasps as each expansion of his lungs caused a flare of searing pain down his injured side.  "My... your arm.  God.   Pressure...   Put pressure... on it."  It was the most he could manage to get out at the moment.  Breathing was still painful, but didn't seem to be worsening any.  The still-rational part of Greg offered up a silent thanks to whatever entities may have been looking out for him that the knife he took appeared to not have punctured a lung.  Bleeding, muscle tissue damage, that could be dealt with.  At least he wasn't going to choke to death here in the back of Mycroft's car.  Well, he might choke on his own guilt, but at least it wouldn't be his blood.

"Officers... on Sherlock's room.  Tell... Donovan."  Speaking was making him lightheaded again, but he needed to get the information out.  Mycroft and Sherlock were his priorities.  Pain could bloody well wait its turn.  "Also.  May... be... more waiting... for you...at the hospital.  Be... very... careful.  Take... your driver."  Greg smiled genuinely, feeling groggy but grateful.  What the hell would they have done without her intervention?  "She's... bloody... brilliant."

Blessedly, the car slowed to a stop.  The driver had pulled directly up to the ambulance entrance of the hospital, and she must have called ahead because there was a small team of medics waiting for them.  Two wheelchairs and two gurneys with teams of attendants at each awaited them.  Greg knew he'd need a wheelchair at least, and hoped fervently that Mycroft wouldn't need anything more.  Cautiously, he placed one arm across Mycroft's chest, indicating to the other man to hold his place while Greg exited the car first, fully anticipating another attack.  When none came he used the last of his reserves to stand sentinel in front of Mycroft's open door until his position could be relieved by the surprisingly petite driver.  With a rattled sigh, exhaustion and blood loss finally hitting him like a tidal wave now that Mycroft's safety was assured, he sank back into the waiting chair at the insistence of the attending paramedics.

"Get him... to surgery," he growled at the nearest attending nurse, causing her to jump.  "For Christ's sake... he's been... shot.  Fuss... all you want... over me... as soon as he's... taken care of."

\----------------

Pain meds and a sling. That was all Mycroft really needed, at the moment, beyond the patching up and bandages they had to give him for his injury. Greg, on the other hand, would require surgery and might have internal bleeding, and still the man was telling him to apply pressure to his own wound and trying to make sure he was alright. The DI could barely speak, let alone stand guard over him, and yet that's what he still did. Amazing. He was absolutely amazing, and if Mycroft hadn't been busy continuing to handle the situation, he would have been more astounded.

As it was, he was trying to figure out how he could ever thank Greg. Ever make it up to him, for this. For the stab wound in his side, for the tense car ride where Greg seemed to get more ashen by the minute, for his quick actions at the pub when Mycroft had only been able to follow orders, his mind failing him when physical reaction was required. It occurred to Mycroft, suddenly, that Gregory Lestrade had saved his life. Sure, the attempt hadn't been on him--still needed to verify that, more details from the attack on Sherlock would help and officers at the door would make sense, he had to tell the staff--but he had still been in serious danger from the stray bullets. A few inches over and the bullet currently in his arm could have been fatally placed. God.

And here was Greg again, trying to tell a nurse to look after Mycroft first when he'd collapsed in a wheelchair immediately and Mycroft could still stand and walk of his own volition. He had no idea how he was ever going to make it up to Greg. He was acutely aware, however, in the back of his mind, that Greg was one of the best men he'd ever known, and that meant he'd be better off telling the DI to get as far away from him as he possibly could. What had happened tonight, both with Sherlock and them, had just been a taste of the swirling miasma of death and danger that surrounded Mycroft Holmes, and the last thing he wanted to do was drag an angel into it. And Greg was as close as he was going to get to an angel. God, that sounded worse in his head than he'd thought.

"I'm fine, really," he insisted to the nurse with Greg, his phone away and his right hand covering his wound again, applying gentle pressure. "This man has been stabbed and needs to be taken care of immediately. I'm second priority to him, and--no thank you, I do not require a chair," he said as two frazzled looking nurses tried simultaneously to get him to use the other wheelchair and usher him inside for care. He acquiesced, calmly walking beside Greg's chair as they wheeled him in, and continued with his calm instructions. "There should be a Sergeant Donovan somewhere around here, probably with my brother, Sherlock Holmes. I need to speak to her at once, and once I'm bandaged I will need to meet with several other people as well who are waiting for an update as to my medical status. Again, however, this man is your priority, do not let him out of your sight, someone is making an attempt on his life. Do you understand?"

If there was one thing Mycroft had mastered, it was the commanding tone of voice. Nurses that had been trying to fuss over him moments ago were nodding and listening, and one was immediately dispatched to find Donovan so Mycroft had one less box to check off on his list. Part of the reason his voice worked so well in hospitals was that nurses were used to being bossed around in emergency situations and for them, this was just part of the job, only it was a strange man who was holding his arm funny instead of a doctor. Either way it worked, and one nurse meekly informed him that they had to separate him from Greg now, since Greg's care was more intensive.

He thanked the woman with a slight smile, which she nervously returned, clearly afraid of his authority without knowing why, and turned to Greg for a moment. "I'll be right along to see you again as soon as I deal with the situation out here and see Sherlock." He suddenly became aware again of his soaking wet, red sleeve, and added, "And as soon as my injury has been attended to as well. Until then, I have to let you go. Don't disappear on me, Gregory." His tone was laced with the commanding air he'd had before, coupled with a graveness that indicated he meant that both literally and figuratively. "I need you."

\----------------

Greg watched in wonder as Mycroft, injured though he was, took immediate command of the situation once they were safely inside the hospital building.  Nurses and other paramedic staff swirled around him, obeying snapped orders with the haste that the politician's tones demanded.  Mycroft himself stood tall and unruffled, the proverbial calm at the eye of the storm as he effortlessly directed the chaos around him.  It was impressive, and more than a bit attractive, really.  No, wait.  Again, not the time.  What with the both of them bleeding and all.

The taller man strode over to him, one hand pressed against the wound in his upper arm.  The DI would have given quite a bit to know the extent of the of Mycroft's injuries, but the other man was keeping his condition close to his vest.  Well, that was good.  No need to advertise the level of success his attackers managed to achieve.  As they walked, nurses swirled around him, taking his blood pressure, inserting an IV port into the veins inside his elbow, attaching a pulse monitor to his finger.  Through the carefully controlled chaos he was able to make out Mycroft ordering the staff to not lose sight of him because... because he was the one the attack was intended for?  That... that just couldn't be right.

"No.. I'm not.  I'm not... **important**.  Nobody wants... me dead.  Save my... ex wife.  Look after... **him** ," he murmured to the closest nurse, trying his best to indicate the injured politician as the procession came to a stop at a fork in the hospital hallways.  The nurse patted his arm reassuringly, obviously not paying any attention to his actual words.  Greg grimaced, trying to find the strength to make his point but everything felt so slow and fuzzy, and eventually he gave up trying to find the words.  Mycroft's driver was right on his heels, and the DI felt so much better for knowing that no matter where he went, the brilliant man would be well guarded.

Mycroft turned to him, his voice deep and commanding in Greg's ear as he positively ordered the DI not to disappear.  The silver haired man smiled up at him, trying to find some clever words to use as a reply or offer some sort of reassurance, but nothing came.  Without warning, Mycroft's voice went from commanding to deadly serious. ' _I need you_.'  The words ricocheted in Greg's quickly emptying mind, becoming the immediate focal point of his entire odd existence.  Mycroft... needed him?  That was.  Well.  That was just bloody amazing, wasn't it?  Before they ushered the injured man away from him for treatment, Greg desperately fought through the haze of pain and managed to whisper out a response.

"I'm not... going anywhere.  We... still have to... finish our date.  Go... get patched up.  I'll see you... soon."  As soon as the words were out of his mouth their group broke into two; Greg being wheeled away shortly down the corridor where he was helped up onto a rolling bed by two of the hospital staff.  Almost immediately after he laid down a stern looking white coated man came and raised his shirt, surveying his side with pursed lips.

The DI nodded dimly as the doctor told him that it'd be much easier to assess the extent of his injury in surgery; that although it looked to mostly be a deep slash through muscle it would be best to have him out and on the table already in case they found something internal that needed immediate tending.  The next few minutes passed rapidly; he was wheeled into surgery without stopping by a room, and the last muddled thought as the anesthesia kicked in was that, wherever the politician was, Greg had succeeded enough in his attempts to protect him that at least surgery could be avoided.  Then the feeling of lightheadedness and worry faded, and there was simply darkness.

\----------------

What really amazed Mycroft was that despite everything, despite his injuries and the entire situation, Greg was still able to smile at him and force out a response. And while his words shouldn't have had an effect, since he was clearly injured and on the edge of incoherence as Mycroft was sure he was, they did. They soothed his maelstrom of a mind just a bit, allowed him to relax with the knowledge that he would see Greg again later. And right now the man was being cared for, so things were okay for a minute. Mycroft was okay. Greg _would_ be okay, if Mycroft had anything to say about it, and Sherlock as well. _Sherlock._

He allowed himself a few seconds to make sure Greg was actually going to be taken care of and then turned again, continuing with his orders and actions. Michelle was sent to find the other men who would be arriving, Mycroft's own security team, who would be posted outside both Greg and Sherlock's door because as much as he trusted Scotland Yard, he didn't trust them enough for that. Besides, a little extra protection would mean that the two most important people in the hospital at the moment were well looked after, the two targets of the attacks. Mycroft wasn't counting himself as a target at the moment, considering people who went after him were usually much more determined about it.

He found Sergeant Donovan--well, she was brought to him since at this point two nurses had practically wrestled him to a seat on a gurney, though he refused to lie down--and before she could even open her mouth to ask, said, "Inspector Lestrade is currently being treated for a stab wound in another region of this hospital and told me to inform you to post officers outside of my brother's door for the sake of his protection. My own security team will be taking up positions outside of his room as well as Inspector Lestrade's, as I suspect they were targeted by the same people. Now, tell me where my brother is and you can go find your superior."

She looked startled for a minute. "138," she managed to get out, and dashed off again to find Greg after Mycroft dismissed her with a nod. Finally, he removed his hand from his arm and accepted treatment. The blood loss had been starting to make him light-headed, anyway, and the pain was making it hard to snap so efficiently at people. Michelle had returned to her post by his side, successful in getting the security team in place, and now stood by as Mycroft's wound was tended to. It wasn't that bad, really. The bullet had to be removed, the arm stitched up and put into a sling that held it close to his chest, but it wasn't bad. They were trying to get him to lie down on a bed and he firmly refused, only accepting an IV of pain medicine that wouldn't put him to sleep and that he could walk around with.

And walk he did. As soon as his bandages were done, his arm in its sling, he went to see Sherlock, his team letting him into the room without question. God. Sherlock. He was a mess, to start with. Bruised black and blue, tubes everywhere and IVs by his side. He was asleep, that was good, as Mycroft had been informed that he wasn't in a coma, but merely passed out because of the pain meds. But he looked so hurt, so broken. Mycroft could feel a deep sense of guilt weighing heavily on the back of his neck, bowing his head forward slightly. Sherlock was his responsibility, his charge to protect, and he had failed him. He should have been watching, should have been paying attention, should have done _something_ to prevent this, but he had failed. And both Sherlock and Greg had had to pay for it.

Greg. Greg. He was torn between a need to stay by Sherlock's side until he woke up and a need to check up on Greg. He'd talked to one of the nurses attending to Sherlock and she had informed him of his brother's condition--beaten, broken, stable--so he knew that he could leave for a little while and nothing disastrous would happen. Greg was more seriously injured, and he felt responsible for that as well. So he stood back up, a little woozy on his feet, and, rolling his IV along with him, went to find Greg.

\----------------

It took until the fourth or fifth time that Greg woke for his body to actually stay that way.  Before, wakefulness came in brief glimpses as the haze of anesthetic and pain killers kept pulling him back down into the murky pool of unconsciousness.  The spaces between were odd and hectic, filled with uncomfortable and strange dreams.  In one, he was hunting.  Gun drawn, footsteps clattering as he ran down a dark alley, unsure of what he was chasing after.  In fact the only certainty there was in that dream was that something **very** important hinged on him catching... whatever it was that fled before him in the black-and-white darkness.

The next was even worse; he was laying in his bed at home.  Not his flat, his **home.**  The onethat he had shared with Janice.  There was blood everywhere; the walls, the floor, smeared across the sheets and bedspread.  A figure that could have been his wife stood in the doorway.  Her face was blurred, indistinguishable.  The knife in her hand was not.  Cherry red, it pulsed with an angry heat.  She moved over to stand above him, and the only thing he could see was that her eyes were somehow inhuman, almost insect-like as she slowly began to push the glowing hot blade into his side.

The third dream was almost comforting, if strange in its nature.  He was laying on his back on top of a dark wooden desk, and as he looked around the room he realized that he was in Mycroft's office at the Diogenes Club.  He tried to sit up, to say something, but the walls began to run like water splashed on still-wet ink and dizziness forced him back down.  Mycroft suddenly appeared from nowhere, as people are wont to do in dreams, and held his hand.  Something about the smooth stroking of the man's thumb across the back of his knuckles made the colors stop dripping off the walls, and they sat together in silence until the dream faded into another.

The final dream was quite possibly the worst.  It was his brother's funeral, he knew immediately.  The event was seared in his mind; he would never forget the dreary day and the meager handful of people, most of them addicts themselves, who came to see Danny put in the ground.  But this time instead of Janice walking up with him to the open casket it was Donovan.  And they weren't walking, she was pulling him along, hauling him bodily by his elbow as he tried desperately to dig in his heels and stop the forward momentum.

They reached the casket, and when Greg peered in the body was Sherlock, not Danny.  The black-haired detective was beaten horribly, face barely recognizable beneath the indigo and black rainbow of bruises covering his pale skin.  One sleeve was rolled up to reveal an emaciated arm, needle dangling from the crook of his pale elbow like the poor kid had just climbed into the open coffin and ODed.  A wave of nausea hit him, and he pulled back sharply.  He turned from Donovan to run away, and managed to get no more than a few steps before he found himself stumbling into the street in front of the Evening Star.  When he looked backwards to see what he had tripped over he noticed Mycroft's body lying in the street.  Greg rushed forward but the other man was cool to the touch, blood already starting to dry around the jagged edges of the bullet hole in his throat.

Thankfully, that was the last of them.  Whether from stress, sheer dogged determination to not fall back asleep and have any more dreams, or simply if the cocktail of medications was starting to wear off, when he woke after that dream he stayed conscious.  Slowly, he opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings.  Hospital room, right.  He had been stabbed.  Thinking of the wound made it ache, but the pain was nothing in comparison to the way it had felt in the back of Mycroft's car.  Mycroft.  Sherlock.  Oh god.  They had both been injured, and Greg had just been lying here, wrapped up in some cocoon of self-pitying nightmares.  Well, enough of that.

He sat up slowly, mostly using the bars on the side of his bed for leverage so as not to upset the wound in his side.  Once sitting upright, the first thing he noticed was Mycroft sitting in a chair in the corner of his room.  Despite his unnaturally disarrayed appearance, the sight of the elder Holmes brother flooded Greg's system with relief.  The auburn haired man looked exhausted.  His normally pale skin was pallid and ashen, his suit coat draped over his left shoulder where his arm had been bound up tight to his chest in a sling.  It looked as if the "minor" government official had been working despite his injury; those intense blue eyes moved from the screen of his mobile up to Greg as the DI rose.

"Oh thank god.  Mycroft!  Are you alright?  How's your arm?  How's Sherlock?"  The words tumbled out of him quickly, and he winced.  His intention had not been to badger the poor man for information, but it seemed that the painkillers were still doing at least part of their work.  The DI's mental filters seemed to be functioning even less than they normally did.  While talking was easier, the DI's voice was weak and reedy, throat feeling tight and dry.

"And...ah.  If it's not too much trouble could you ask a nurse for some water?  I'm parched," he croaked.

\----------------

Mycroft had found Greg as soon as he wanted to find him, the information already in one of the numerous texts on his phone that he had to sort through and deal with separately. Michelle had wanted to come in with him, but he had told her to wait outside the door, as he preferred to see Greg and deal with his guilt on his own. Nobody needed to see the vulnerability he showed around Greg, whether the man was awake or not. It wouldn't do for them to see their fearless leader drop his mask and look absolutely exhausted at the sight of the DI.

He'd been cleaned up, put into hospital clothing, and attached to the many monitors usually required. He was asleep--of course, the surgery--but he looked alright, if a little battered. Thank God for that. Mycroft didn't know what he would have done if the man had been seriously injured, though a stabbing was injury enough. But he was recovering. He would be alright. There was no need for the crushing amount of guilt that was weighing on Mycroft's shoulders, making him suddenly feel exhausted.

_My fault, my fault, my fault, my fault--_

He needed to sit down suddenly and found the chair in the corner, rolling his IV along with him so he could sit down heavily. He was so tired, but there was too much work to be done before he could sleep. And he didn't want to sleep, actually, because that would mean having to take his attention off of Greg and Sherlock, and he couldn't afford that at the moment. For a moment he considered whether he should be in Sherlock's room instead of Greg's, but Greg was more seriously injured at the moment and also more likely to wake up sooner. That coupled with the fact that he had basically saved Mycroft's life glued him to his chair, despite his concern for Sherlock. If Sherlock woke up, Mycroft would be the first to know, anyway, he'd been assured of that.

And he was right. Greg woke up first. Woke up looking like hell and practically spilling over with questions, but woke up first nonetheless, drawing Mycroft's eyes up from his mobile. He'd gotten some work done while waiting--tapes were being reviewed, suspects questioned, the entirety of the British government was searching--and the investigation was already in progress. So Mycroft could afford to put the phone back in his pocket and get up, crossing to the nightstand where the pitcher of water and plastic cups sat.

He poured a glass and handed it to Greg as he said, "Sherlock is asleep still, I went to see him. He was severely beaten--" His mouth tripped over these words and he had to stop for a second before continuing, "He was severely beaten but he's in stable condition. He'll recover quickly, from everything the doctors have said, and I am to be alerted the moment he wakes up. As for my own condition, my arm will be useless for quite some time and I'll have a scar, but eventually I will recover fully. And what about you, how are you feeling?"

His blue eyes were locked on Greg's brown ones as he sat back in his chair again, the DI having taken the cup from his hand. He knew the concern in his gaze was obvious at the moment, the exhaustion from the day making it hard to hold it back. He didn't really want to hide it from Greg, anyway, he wanted Greg to know exactly how much he actually cared about him and exactly how guilty he felt about this entire situation. His fault. Definitely his fault.

\----------------

The way Mycroft uncharacteristically stumbled over his words as he described Sherlock's condition should have caused Greg to be more concerned for the younger Homes.  But something about the truly lost look in those stormy blue eyes made him ache not for Sherlock, but for Mycroft instead.  The DI was unsure how long he had been unconscious, what with the surgery and recovery and all, but it couldn't have been more than a few hours.  So, just a few hours ago the ever-stoic man had confessed to Greg just how horrible it would be for him to lose Sherlock.  The words rang in through his head.  ' _The government might crumble_.'  And Mycroft Holmes was the British Government.  Well then, it was no surprise that those blue eyes looked like they belonged to someone who was hanging over a very deep, very dark precipice.

Greg supposed that he should be furious, or worried, or scared, or a combination of all three.  But truly, having just wrenched himself from the latest of his terrible dreams, all he could feel was grateful.  Grateful that Sherlock was alive, even more grateful that Mycroft was... The sharp image of the auburn haired man stretched out on the pavement, gaping red hole torn through his pale throat and... no.  It was just a stupid dream.  From the surgery drugs.  Mycroft was very much alive.  He was here in this room; breathing, working, wounded, and exhausted, but largely intact.    

When the elegantly suited man handed him a glass of water, Greg lifted his eyes.  Brown matched blue, and the gaze held for a lengthy moment until Mycroft turned back to his waiting chair, inquiring after Greg's own condition.  Wasn't that something; someone bloody well tried to kill the man just a few hours prior, succeeded in shooting him even, and here Mycroft was asking about him.  If the entire evening hadn't already been beyond surreal the mere thought would have set the DI's brain to spinning.  As it was, the idea of Mycroft's concern sent a fluttering through his chest; strange and exciting at the same time.  Something about the compassion in that normally distant gaze was for him, and despite the horrid nature of their circumstances Greg thought that this was quite likely one of those moments that would stay with him for the rest of his life.  After all, Gregory Lestrade may not be all that important in the scheme of things, but at that moment he felt very important to Mycroft, and that was enough.

Beyond concern, however, something else lingered in that steely blue gaze.  It took Greg's still foggy mind a few moments longer than normal to figure out what exactly it was.  Words were still coming back to him at a slow pace, and his head felt as if it were packed with cotton.  But no matter his condition, he'd recognize that look anywhere, even if he had never expected to see it on the politician's handsome face.  In addition to looking completely wrung-out and exhausted, Mycroft looked anguished.  Pain--Greg suspected that not much of it was actually physical anymore--had etched itself into the lines of those handsome features.  The DI was overcome with the urgent desire to simply wrap his arms around the other man to offer him some kind of solace.  Had Mycroft been any closer, he might even have tried, but the taller man settled back into his chair before Greg could make any kind of move.  Well, that just left words.  They weren't the DI's strongest suit by any stretch of the imagination, but they were what he had and they'd have to bloody well make do.

'I'm fine.  I mean, considering.  Groggy.  A bit hollow feeling, but nothing too bad.  I expect that I'll be patched up and released in no time.  But Mycroft... your arm.  Jesus.  I'm so, so sorry I couldn't cover you.  I just..."  Greg's voice unexpectedly hitched, and he cursed the damn medications for making him so... loopy.  Open.  "I'm just so fucking glad you're all right."

"But.  Well.  Ah.  You.  I mean other than the arm, how are you holding up?  I mean, for fuck's sake someone tried to kill you!  And you're still working,"  Greg had wanted to the words to come out as disbelieving, but they mostly sounded thick with concern.  "Have you taken a break?  Eaten anything?  Slept at at all?"  The questions were almost rhetorical; he knew Mycroft well enough to know that the elder Holmes wouldn't sleep until he had caught and punished the responsible parties.  But it was good to remind the genius politician of his own physical needs.  Like Sherlock, Greg suspected that Mycroft put everything else aside to work on a case.  Especially one that involved his little brother.  Well there wasn't much he could do to assist in the case from a hospital bed, but he could damn well make sure that the handsome politician didn't work himself to death.  After all, it was the least he could do.  He owed it to both Mycroft and Sherlock to make sure that the elder Holmes didn't come to any more harm because Greg was unable to stop it.

"You need to take care of yourself, Mycroft.  And hey.  We'll get this worked out.  I'm so, so sorry that I couldn't stop what happened to Sherlock.  But hospital or no, I'll be damned if I let any more harm come to you, even at your own hands, even if I have to bribe every nurse in this hospital to get you to take care of yourself."

"And... I.  I... I just want you to know that I'm sorry.  For what happened to you.  For what happened to your brother.  I... I just."  He fumbled with his words again, unable to define the core of his feelings.  Mycroft just looked so distraught, so far removed from the warm and engaging man from their time at the pub.  It tore at Greg's heart to see the man so wounded, so lost.  "I... you seemed happy earlier.  You have a nice smile, you know?  I'll do anything I can, anything at all, to make sure I get to see it again."  The DI shifted uncomfortably before adding, almost in a whisper "I'll do anything I can to make this up to you.  I swear."

\----------------

For once in his life, the very first time in a long time, Mycroft felt naked. Laid bare beneath Greg's searching gaze, his every emotion and expression being read and interpreted by the other man, who only seemed to be getting more concerned about what he saw. Deeper in. More involved. _Closer_. And that thought terrified him, for a moment. He'd let the walls slip a bit before and it had been fine, Greg had seen the good things Mycroft had meant for him to see, but now he was seeing too much, the anguish and the exhaustion and the guilt and the depression that was bound to settle over him like a fog, like it had done before and like it would do again. He didn't want anyone to see that, least of all Greg, who was already blaming himself for this and who would only offer Mycroft the things he actually needed, things that would distract him. Having someone take care of him would only mean he would become relaxed in taking care of others, and he couldn't afford that.

So he had two options. The first was to go all the way and let Greg in. He could just admit everything, give up and allow himself to be taken under the other man's wing, let him in and let him see the true Mycroft Holmes, the true, exhausted, and a little bit broken Mycroft Holmes that lived under a politician's mask and ate his feelings instead of facing them. It would be a monumental decision, if he allowed that. Unprecedented. Well, not entirely, but letting people in had never helped him before and he was unsure whether it would now. But Greg was different. Greg would understand. Greg was willing to help and beyond that, wanted to. Poor, sweet, martyr Greg, who wouldn't understand Mycroft's second option.

He could shut Greg out entirely. Backtrack on the entire evening, put the mask back on and be as cold and distant as he would be with a stranger, pretend that he had never opened up to Greg and the whole thing had been a fluke. A mistake. Wrong. Greg would be confused for awhile, hurt, maybe try to get back under the other man's shell, but eventually he would give up and go away like they all did. They'd go back to their formal relationship and Mycroft could forget that this had ever happened, that he had ever seen anything in this man, that he had ever wanted anything with him, that he had ever seen this other side of the DI, the one he wanted to see daily. He could force himself to go back to the way things were.

Only he couldn't, could he? Even as he thought about it, he knew he wouldn't be able to entirely shove Gregory Lestrade out of his mind, and might  never be able to. Just the thought alone was making his chest ache hollowly almost to the point of pain and he had to take a few deep breaths to ease it just a bit. No. He wouldn't be able to get rid of Greg. He couldn't do that to Greg. It would hurt the other man terribly, he was sure of that, if he shut him out now, and considering that this was his fault and the other man had been grievously injured while protecting Mycroft, he couldn't do that. No. He had to bite the bullet-- _and after a shooting, too, control your thoughts, Mycroft_ \--and do what he had been dreading: he had to let Greg in.

_"I'm just so fucking glad you're all right." "You need to take care of yourself, Mycroft." "I... you seemed happy earlier. You have a nice smile, you know? I'll do anything I can, anything at all, to make sure I get to see it again."_

_"I'll do anything I can to make this up to you. I swear."_

Yes, he definitely had to let Greg in.

Mycroft sighed heavily and got up, going behind his chair so he could push it forward with his working hand, stopping when it was just far away enough from Greg's bed that he could sit without banging his knees. He sat back down, stopping his IV by his side again, and looked at Greg for a moment, choosing his words before he began to speak. "There are some inaccuracies in your view of the situation, but those can be resolved momentarily, right now, I have something much more important to say." He took Greg's hand in his own, his grip as firm as his eyes as he made sure Greg was looking at him, wanting him to know that these words were as sincere as he could make them. "This was not. Your. **Fault**. Any of it. You have nothing to make up for, and I will not stand to have you think that. This situation arose entirely because of my own failings, and as such, I am resolving it. You bear no blame, Gregory, and I will not have you thinking you do."

He squeezed his hand slightly, a small, sad smile appearing on his lips. "And I _was_ happy, earlier. Quite happy, in fact, because of you and your efforts. You gave me a wonderful evening, and when that evening was ruined, you saved my life. I cannot thank you enough for that, Gregory. So please, don't apologize to me when you have no reason to do so. And don't worry about me, either. I'm fine. And I will not rest until I find out who hurt you, and who hurt Sherlock. Until then, I must ask you to worry about your own health. I care about you, Gregory, and I want to look after you."

\----------------

As the other man settled back into his chair, Greg could very nearly see the distance growing between them.  Mycroft's mask of composure had settled over his fine features like a shroud, and his eyes became steely and somber.  Panic wrapped a hand around Greg's throat and squeezed; the tightness traveling down his neck and into his chest as his heart began to hammer furiously against his ribs.

_No!  No, no, no.  I can't lose this.  This ground we've gained, my guardianship of Sherlock.  It's all I have left outside of my job.  Please, **please** if there is any merciful fucking force in the universe, just let me hold onto this.  Even if we have to backtrack.  Even if Mycroft and I can't be friends, or more, at least let him still find a use for me when it comes to looking after his brother._

When Mycroft gave a heavy sigh, rose, and started nudging his chair towards his bed Greg tried to prepare himself for the worst.  The " _Thank you, but that won't be necessary.  I'm sorry and I know you did your best, but..._ " speech that was surely crystallizing in that brilliant mind.  Not that he blamed Mycroft, not at all.  It was obvious that Sherlock needed a better watchdog than Lestrade, and while it appeared that the injury he received wasn't too serious he'd be out of commission for at least a few weeks healing.  The elder Holmes brother began to speak, and Greg mustered as much composure as he could and braced himself for the impact of Mycroft's gentle but firm rebuff of his offer.

_"I have something much more important to say..."_

Lost in his own thoughts, the DI nearly jumped out of his skin when Mycroft's hand closed over his own.  That had not been what he was expecting.  The contact sent sparks skittering across his nerves, and though somewhat deadened by the cocktail of medications in his system, the sensation still made him a bit lightheaded.  The touch seemed to reestablish their earlier connection, and the DI released a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding as he relaxed.  Mycroft's words continued to wash over him, each bringing a wave of disbelief and leaving tide pools of awestruck gratefulness in their wake.  

Finally able to raise his eyes to the man sitting next to him, Greg's heart once again caught in his throat, but for an entirely different reason.  Now, instead of looking as if he had been carved of marble, Mycroft's face was soft and expressive.  Deep sorrow etched into the barely perceptible lines at the corners of his mouth.  Eyes ferociously bright with intelligence, but at the same time they somehow reminded Greg of a guttering flame.  On the verge of burning out.  The normally reserved man looked exhausted and worried and above all, painfully lonely.  And still, here he was, offering the DI reassurances and promising to not rest until Greg and Sherlock were safe, telling Greg not to blame himself for all that transpired.  Here was Mycroft; troubled to the edge of some unfathomable precipice, promising to take on yet more concerns, and for Greg's sake as well as Sherlock's?  It was... well, it boggled the mind.

" _I care about you, Gregory, and I want to look after you._ "  The words hit Greg like a freight train; his mind reeling from the impact.  This was... this was more than he ever could have hoped for.  One one hand he supposed that he should be worried that it was just a natural response to trauma that drove Mycroft to reach out to him.  On the other hand, their evening had been so nice earlier, and Greg was more than willing to just let himself believe that it was true.

Overcome with relief and an urgent, undeniable desire to erase every trace of loneliness from Mycroft's handsome face, Greg did the only thing he could think of.  He twined his fingers with Mycroft's, and tugged gently to urge the other man to lean forward.  As the auburn haired man moved closer, Greg leaned forward and brushed his lips against the other man's. The kiss was brief, soft, and incredibly chaste.  The DI didn't want to be too forward; and god alone knew kissing the man at all was a calculated risk.  He didn't want to panic Mycroft, or put him in an awkward position.  But gestures said more than words ever could, and Greg hoped beyond hope that his intentions and unspoken sentiment would ring true through the impulsive gesture.

"You're bloody amazing, Mycroft Holmes.  You know that?  You're an amazing, brilliant, incredible, impossible man.  I don't know what failings you are talking about, because I certainly haven't seen any.  So, let's both stop being daft and blaming ourselves, yeah?"  Greg gave the hand interlocked with his a reassuring squeeze.  "I'm not going anywhere, and I promise to take care of myself if you promise to do the same, alright?"

\----------------

It was hard, so very hard for Mycroft to look into those chocolate brown eyes when they connected with his. He wondered if suspects in questioning got a variation of that same look; deep, soul-searching, as if Greg was the genius detective and not Sherlock. Of course, any suspects wouldn't be nearly laid flat with the sheer amount of concern in that gaze, heavy and nearly overwhelming, but all the same, Mycroft felt that he was being dissected under Greg's gaze and he had willingly submitted to it. He wondered briefly if this was how other people felt when he and his brother deduced things about their life. It was hard to hide from a Holmes, but Mycroft himself was having trouble hiding at the moment.

But those eyes were showing relief, now. Like his words had actually pacified the DI, and Mycroft hoped to God they had because he wasn't sure how much more of himself he could reveal before he shut Greg out again on instinct. It was sad, really, that letting people in was such an effort for him, but this was a step. Greg wasn't pushing him away. In fact, Greg was tugging him closer, and Mycroft leaned forward obligingly, sure the DI just didn't want to raise his voice--

Oh. **Oh.** Greg was-- Greg had-- he'd just--

Oh. Greg had just kissed him. Well. He hadn't expected that.

Hadn't expected the kiss, and certainly hadn't expected the way it made him feel, the sparks starting in his mind, the nervous energy that began to thrum through his body at the brief brush of those surprisingly soft lips. It was over almost before it had even begun, short and chaste and lovely, and Mycroft found himself following Greg's lips for a second after the DI pulled away, before he regained himself and pulled back a little as Greg began to speak. It had barely been anything, just a brush of the lips, but Mycroft found a slight blush spreading across his cheeks.

He hadn't been kissed in a long time. Far too long, really, since his work consumed most of the time and Sherlock usually consumed the rest. What little time he had to himself was mostly spent alone, in offices and the silent Diogenes Club and at home, sitting quietly by himself and wondering if asking Anthea to have a conversation with him would make her fear for his sanity. And now, here was Greg, who had not only saved his life and kissed him, but was also now laying compliments on him and making him a promise. A deal. It was no wonder that Mycroft found himself blushing, though he couldn't say he was happy about it.

But then Greg stopped speaking and, despite the blush, Mycroft smiled. A real, honest, open, genuine smile, like the ones that he'd been exhibiting at the pub earlier, before this mess had happened. He suddenly wasn't quite as afraid as he had been, not of opening up to Greg, not of what would happen with Sherlock, not with any of it. He was feeling better now, actually. And he probably had Greg's kiss to thank. And the words, _"I'm not going anywhere."_ That helped. That helped him so much towards feeling at ease, caught though he was like this, open and genuine. It would be alright, if Greg said it would.

"I'm perfectly alright, Gregory, don't concern yourself with me. I will see to it, however, that you are well looked after, here. Your safety, as well as Sherlock's, is my top priority at the moment. Don't worry about anything, I'm fixing everything as we speak," he said, usually authoritative voice layered with soothing honey and sweet sugar. "I'd rather you relax and rest awhile. You need it." He raised Greg's hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to it softly, not quite bold enough to kiss the man himself. His lips moved against the DI's hand as he said, "And I'll stay here with you as long as I can manage."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which new elements are introduced and things start to get ... complicated.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of Abusive Relationship, Mentions of Eating Disorder, Mentions of Drug Use, Angst

When Lestrade opened his eyes after the brief touch of their lips the first thing he noticed was the slight blush highlighting Mycroft's lovely high cheekbones.  He knew that he broke into an idiotically proud grin, but Greg couldn't help himself.  After all the blushing that the elder Holmes had managed to make him do earlier in the evening, the DI was quite pleased with himself for finally being able to ruffle Mycroft's feathers in return.  Mycroft's reaction was altogether too pleasing; his blush and the slight hesitancy with which he pulled back out of their all-too brief embrace made Greg warm and contented in a way he hadn't experienced in years.  It was as though the chill of loneliness had set itself into his bones so long ago that he didn't even recognize he was frozen until this whole wonderful, awful, amazing evening with Mycroft had started to thaw him out.

The kiss itself, though short in duration, was incredible.  Mycroft's lips were soft but the set of his mouth was firm, and Greg was glad that despite the medications in his system he was able to resist the almost overpowering urge to extend the embrace.  God, he hoped there were more of those kisses in his future.  But the real treat was the genuine, unrehearsed smile that he received afterwards.  God, Mycroft was lovely when he smiled.  The DI swore to himself that he'd make sure it happened more often.  Something in the other man's blue eyes told Greg that the politician had regained some of his inner balance; the lines of worry and fatigue fading somewhat as the smile settled into a lingering grin.  

When Mycroft continued to insist that he was fine, that he would take care of everything and not to worry, Greg had to stop himself from chiding the man into taking care of himself.  The DI had grown all too accustomed to the trademark Holmes stubbornness, and pushing Sherlock to take care of himself on a case had become second nature.  Funny, how Mycroft tended towards the same path, albeit in a much less dramatic fashion.  And the elder Holmes called the younger stubborn.

No, instead of insisting that Mycroft take care of himself, Greg caught his words before they were fully formed and released.  A moment's consideration was all it took for him to realize that the handsome politician needed to be the caretaker.  Needed desperately to be the one offering comfort instead of receiving it.  And god, did Greg understand that.  Before, when he and Danny were kids, it sometimes felt like the only control he had in his life at all was simply to be the strong one.  Being able to take care of his brother made him feel like he at least had some control over the situation, some say in the outcome.  Looking into those cobalt eyes Greg knew that he couldn't take that away from Mycroft.  Pushing against the government official's need to be the caregiver would only serve to stress the other man out even more than he already was, which certainly wasn't Greg's intention.  No, the DI wanted to make things for Mycroft better, not worse.

When the auburn haired man raised Greg's hand to his lips, an electric shock passed over his skin.  The gesture was so sweet, so noble and old fashioned that the DI couldn't help but break into a grin.  The courtliness of it suited the posh man, and Greg was (at least at this point) unsurprised to find himself charmed by the formality of it.  As he lowered their intertwined hands back to the bed, Lestrade made sure to keep his hand fastened to Mycroft's.  There was something so undeniably comforting about being connected together, in that way.  Reassuring.  He could feel the slight flutter of the other man's pulse against his fingers, and it seemed to wash away the final remnants of his horrible dreams.  Mycroft was relatively well; concretely beside him and safe for the time being.  After everything they had been through that evening, Greg could think of nothing that would make him happier than just to hold the official's hand in his own.

"I'd like it very much if you stayed for awhile."  It wasn't a lie, or even an exaggeration.  It was the wholehearted truth.  The idea that Mycroft wanted to stay with him for as long as possible made the silver haired man a bit giddy.  And if a side effect of Mycroft staying nearby was that Greg could keep an eye on him, make sure that he was eating and drinking and resting when necessary, well so be it.  "And... well.  Ah.  Thank you.  For taking care of everything.  You really are bloody incredible, you know that?  And when it's time for you to go look after Sherlock, I understand.  I said it before, but it could always use repeating.  I'm not going anywhere, Mycroft.  I'll be right here."

"But for now... what the hell do you think happened?  I keep trying to put the pieces together in my head and it's not coming together properly.  I don't understand why someone would go after you and Sherlock on the same night.  Is it some sort of familial domestic feud?  Do you have a barn full of angry cousins out there somewhere just waiting to get you?  Or is this something far more sinister?"  Greg's voice lowered to a concerned whisper.  "I mean, I know how you both are involved in the government and politics, even if Sherlock likes to pretend he isn't.  This couldn't be connected to some outside country trying to destabilize the government or anything, could it?"

\---------------------

It was like being buffeted by wave after wave of warm water, each fluctuation allowing him to sink deeper and deeper into this lovely sense of security that came along with Greg's hand on his own. The kind words the man was saying. The smile at the kiss to his hand, like he was so flattered to be treated in such a gentlemanly way. Mycroft was allowing himself to slip into a state of calm security, the most serious issues dealt with for the moment and all of his attention focused on Greg--with some, as always, spared for Sherlock--and all of Greg's attention focused on him.

It was intoxicating, really. He couldn't fathom why right now, nothing sounded better to him than just sitting here with Greg, holding his hand and talking, no matter what they were talking about. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he wanted to stay as long as possible, and he was just happy that that sentiment was reciprocated by Greg. Really, if Sherlock hadn't been injured as well, he would stay with Greg the entire night. Talk to him. Hold his hand. Make sure he actually got some sleep. Take care of him.

There was something that soothed his nerves in the ritual of taking care of someone. A certain kind of contentment, a sense of purpose and fulfilment. It was hard to get that same feeling when Sherlock constantly battled every action he took to protect the other man and called him names as well. Stubborn as a mule and more annoying besides. But Greg was actually letting him. Greg was submitting--at least for the time being--to being under Mycroft's watchful eye, letting the other man worry and fuss and regain a sense of normalcy after everything that happened. God, Greg was too good to him. But so good for him.

He smiled slightly affectionately at Greg's misreading of the situation and concern for both him and his brother. "No, my dear man, you're quite mistaken in your assumptions, I'm sorry to say. There were no shady anarchist groups behind this, no foreign invasions or assassination attempts. The attack tonight was meant for you, not me, though those involved will regret ever having put me into the line of fire. The government is quite protective of me, I'm afraid," he said, beginning to run his thumb over the knuckles of Greg's hand.

"You see, from all of the information I've gathered--as well as from my own personal observations--it seems that the attacks tonight were, indeed, connected,  but through Sherlock and yourself, not through me. I initially suspected as much due to the stab wound you incurred during the firefight. We were both very near that man, but he very carefully aimed for you, which led me to believe he was a failsafe and the attack was meant for you. Considering Sherlock had been attacked earlier in the evening as well, I believed a connection between the two might exist. The only dangerous connection between the two of you consists of the criminals you are mutually in contact with. Now, most of them are either behind bars already, or of little to no concern. Except," he said with a slight lift of his eyebrows, "for the drug and human trafficking rings you are currently working on taking down. Thus, I concluded that the attack was meant to deter Sherlock once more from his work and possibly threaten his safety once again--meaning the human trafficking ring might make an attempt to kidnap him again shortly--and to incapacitate you so he is cut off from the police and the investigation is halted for the time being."

He paused for a moment, pursing his lips slightly as he thought. "It was, on the surface, a well thought-out plan. They did, however, make a few fundamental errors, the biggest of which was in getting me involved." He smiled thinly at Greg, his next words in a lower timbre. "They're going to realize their mistake when I tear them apart from the inside out."

\---------------------

"Huh," Greg pondered the implications of Mycroft's assessment of the situation.  He knew that at some point he'd have to actually have to address the issues at hand; if this happened once it was possible for it to happen again.  And that meant re-working his protocols with Sherlock.  Again.  For both their safety.  But for now his hospital room was warm, and Mycroft's light caresses across the back of his knuckles felt nice, and for the first time since the stabbing his side wasn't angrily throbbing.  So he filed the thought away in the back of his mind as something to attend to once he rested.

And as for Mycroft, well... Greg's acquiescence to the other man's care-giving seemed to have restored a sense of balance to the overworked, injured man.  For the first time since the ill-fated texts he received at the pub, Lestrade felt that they had finally managed to recapture the easy, warm air of their earlier interactions.  The thought of this feeling of connection becoming a regular fixture in his life was almost overwhelming.  The DI simply wanted to grasp hold of Mycroft's hand and never, ever let the other man go.

In light of all the other wholly unexpected events that had transpired over the entire evening, the idea that someone would make an attempt on his life was almost laughable.  But if Mycroft thought that was what was going on... well.  That was just about as good as having it confirmed by fact.  The elder Holmes was king at putting these types of puzzles together on the level of nations and empires.  

"My very first 'assassination attempt'.  I feel like I should celebrate; it must mean I'm doing something right."  The DI smiled, only to have his grin broken by a yawn.  Hadn't he just woken up?  It seemed ridiculous to be tired already.  But Greg supposed that just meant that both the surgery and the medications were doing their job.  The thought that someone would try to deliberately take his life should have been disconcerting, but all Lestrade could feel was a bit of relief in knowing that at least Mycroft wasn't likely to be targeted.  Unfortunately, the auburn haired man seemed to think that things weren't over just quite yet.

"But do you really think they'll make another attempt on Sherlock?  And soon?  I mean... well... Given that they made the very regrettable mistake of getting you involved, I'd hope they'd back off for a bit.  Go to ground."  Greg's eyebrows furrowed as he considered the implications of yet another attack on Sherlock, or himself.  Mycroft would undoubtedly be close by one or the other, and that meant he'd be back in the firing line, so to speak.  It was a position that the elegant politician didn't seem to have any trouble with being in, but Greg was loathe to see Mycroft in any situation that might endanger him.

Additionally, the last thing the DI wanted to be was a distraction.  If something happened to Sherlock, well if something else happened to Sherlock...  It didn't bear thinking about.  Mycroft had looked so lost before, when he spoke about his brother's condition and his feelings of responsibility for it.  Greg couldn't stand the thought of keeping Mycroft from his brother, especially if Sherlock was still potentially in danger.  He strongly suspected that for all his recently regained equilibrium, if something else were to threaten Sherlock that the normally even-keeled politician might come unraveled.  Right.  Well, just because he was laid up in a hospital bed didn't mean that he couldn't use his brain.  After a few seconds of careful consideration, Lestrade put forward his solution.

'Look.  Ah.  I'm sure that Sherlock will have something to say about it when he wakes up, but... Well.  Ehm.  I thought we could perhaps have them move me to the room immediately next door to his?  That way you wouldn't have to be in transit so much, moving between rooms.  The police and private guards would effectively be doubled as they'd still be posted on each room but right next door to each other.  And, well.  You wouldn't have to divide your attentions between us.  You could keep one eye on Sherlock at all times.  Hell, if I'm that nearby we both could."

\---------------------

Mycroft chuckled softly at Greg's assertion that he must be doing something right to deserve his very first assassination attempt. Only Greg could find a way to see this as a positive. He was right, in a way; the assassination attempt did, at least, prove that he was close enough to cornering the cartel that they'd panicked and taken drastic measures with both Sherlock and the DI. That was the only positive, however, as now the two people closest to Mycroft were in danger, injured, and vulnerable to further harm.

And wasn't that a funny thought? That Greg was one of the people closest to him? Mycroft didn't get close with anyone--even his own brother told him to piss off on nearly a daily basis--and yet here he was, holding Greg Lestrade's hand and running his thumb across his knuckles because he just wanted to find some way to comfort the other man. Because a hardened DI from Scotland Yard really needed to be comforted. Well, it went two ways. The more he comforted Greg (or tried) the more comforted Mycroft felt himself. It soothed his nerves to be able to calmly explain the situation to Greg, outline the possibilities, and have him there. Whole. Fine. Breathing. Yes, Greg was one of the people closest to him. He wasn't sure quite yet if he'd regret that or not.

But for now, here Greg was, trying to make things easier on Mycroft even though he was the one confined to a hospital bed, not the politician. Oh, sweet Greg. Mycroft smiled gently, composing his speech a little less formally than he usually did before speaking. "That is an excellent idea, Gregory. Having the two of you close together would make it much easier to look after both of you. I'll have to alert the hospital as soon as possible," he said, and crossed his legs, leaning forward slightly. "And to answer your question, yes, I do believe that Sherlock will be attacked again, soon."

He sighed heavily, some of his concern and weariness leaking through. "The cartel will find out, undoubtedly, that you survived the attack, and that combined with the fact that Sherlock is still around to testify against them as I dismantle their organization will make them paranoid, jumpy, and eager to resolve the situation. Getting rid of Sherlock will be their top priority, as he witnessed most things first-hand, with ki--eliminating you as their second priority." He frowned slightly at his inability to say the word 'killing' in conjunction with Greg, but filed it away for further consideration later. "You're only less significant to them than my brother because you weren't directly involved in any of their operations and have limited first-hand knowledge of their enterprise. Were Sherly to suddenly 'disappear', however, in a criminal case the prosecution would have you as the second best witness for their case."

"Which means that until I have completely resolved the situation and everyone responsible is...taken care of...well." He smiled thinly, like the whole thing was something unpleasant that was a natural part of life, but had to be dealt with anyway. That's sort of how it was for him, anyway. Just another emergency to handle, another situation to deal with, something to be resolved as quickly as possible with as little mess as possible. Only this time, it happened to involve two people close to him that he would do anything to protect. Would he really do anything to protect Greg?

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it was true. God, when had taking care of this man become the only thing he wanted to do? _Sherlock_ , the back of his mind whispered, but he brushed it away. Yes, yes, he had to take care of Sherlock too. But that was a given, it wasn't something he needed to think about like he thought about his need to take care of Greg. Sherlock had been his only thought since he was seven years old, a constant and tired thought that perpetually renewed itself in his brain, but Greg was a new development. A new care. And one that he didn't seem to mind.

"You should sleep," he said, his voice soft. Sleep sounded like a wonderful idea at the moment, but he tried to push his exhaustion off of his face and into the back of his mind. If he said he wasn't tired enough times, he'd actually start to believe it. But Greg definitely seemed tired, and after everything that had happened today, it was essential that he rested. "I'm not going anywhere for the time being, so you can rely on me to be here when you wake up, Gregory. So please, rest.

\---------------------

Mycroft's assertion that he should get some sleep was sound, Greg realized, but it was hard to imagine willingly relinquishing time spent with the other man.  No, sleeping was no safe harbor.  For one, the dreams were lurking just below the surface of consciousness, hungrily reaching for him with taloned hands.  But even greater than the fear of his own thoughts was the unease he felt at leaving the elder Holmes brother alone in the face of their shared circumstances. Though, if Lestrade was being truthful with himself, it was also equally due to the fact that sleep would be tantamount to being without Mycroft, and that was the last thing the DI wanted for purely selfish reasons.  Having the politician near him. listening to him, seeing him... well.  It was heady and captivating and altogether too wonderful and new, and Greg wanted to experience it for as long as possible.

It was a bit odd; knowing that the whole interaction had started out with something very akin to a fight and ended with injuries all around.  To think that an evening with such tumultuous beginnings and endings would have been one of his better nights in months.  The middle of their 'date' had really made Greg realize exactly how large the emotional void left by his ex wife was.  Lestrade hadn't quite realized just how starved he was for some kind of deeper connection with someone until he noticed how hungrily he soaked up attention from Mycroft.

Yes, the middle part of their 'date' was wonderful; talking, listening, being heard for the first time in what felt like years.  It was so wonderful, in fact, that there was a small part of Greg that was happy he was going to be falling asleep in a hospital bed with the most captivating man he had ever met essentially sitting vigil over him.  In a lot of ways it was far better than retiring to his own flat alone, again.  The past year or so had seen a repeat of that same pattern every evening that wasn't spent sleeping at his office instead.  Funny, it hadn't seemed to bother him at the time.  He didn't feel lonely in the way the poets wrote of it.  No, it was nothing that dramatic.  Overall Lestrade just felt... automated.  A bit hollow.

One wonderful, insane evening with Mycroft had changed that.  Gotten him to realize feelings long denied and buried.  Gotten him to enjoy connecting with another person on more than just a friendly level for the first time in years.  Gotten him to enjoy the simple pleasure of a comforting touch on the back of his hand.  All things that had gotten lost during the deterioration of his marriage.  All things that he craved, soul greedy for more.  But another yawn wracked him, making him wince as the gash along his side pulled tight.  Well, Mycroft had assured him that he would be there when he awoke.  That despite the oddity of their new-found connection the handsome politician wouldn't fade away like fog in sunlight as soon as Greg shut his eyes. Still... it seemed a shame to end the evening on that note. Carefully, the silvery haired man raised his hand, the one not currently covered by long pale fingers, and rested it gently against the juncture of Mycroft's long pale throat and his broad, curving shoulder.

"I'll sleep, under one condition."  God, the drugs really had him quite spun.  Almost as spun as Mycroft's attentions had him.  Not that Greg minded either the drugs or the affection, especially if his reward for acting on the impulses they generated was for the besuited man to lean almost imperceptibly into his touch.  He ran the side of his broad thumb along the side of the politician's marble pale throat, stroking from the juncture of neck and shoulder to the sensitive spot where ear and jaw met, then back down again. God, his skin was so soft.  It was hard not to lose himself in the feel of it, pull the other man closer and... well.  They hadn’t even finished their date properly yet.

"Y'know.  Dates usually end when either both parties end up in different locations, or someone falls asleep.  So, uh... if I'm falling asleep I guess that means our date is over..." Greg cleared his throat a bit awkwardly, trying to once again remember the ease of their flirtation waltz at the pub table, before they were interrupted and assaulted.  He was sure that his cheeks were colored again; the earlier blush that had seemed almost permanent returning once again to his cheeks.  "Well, I was hoping to get at least one kiss at the end of the night.  So, I'll go to sleep if you oblige me?"  He tried not to sound giddy and hopeful, but Greg knew he was babbling like a smitten teenager.  Oh well.  Mycroft made him feel more than a bit like a smitten teenager, and there was no sense in trying to hide it.  Those cobalt eyes saw everything, and they didn't seem to narrow at all in distaste at Greg's blushes and stammers.  Might as well just keep going along and not try to fight his body's natural, slightly flustered reaction to the politician's intense attentions.

"And if you could stand to get just a touch of rest yourself, I promise I'll find a suitable way to reward you once we're both out of this hospital," he said with a mischievous grin.

\---------------------

Mycroft hadn't been expecting the touch to his neck when Greg's hand rose, and had to fight down the faint blush that tried to settle on his cheeks back down again. It was so nice, so welcome, and Greg's hand was slightly worn and calloused from the work that he did, so he knew it was from a hand unused to giving such touches. That thought made it even better, somehow. And then Greg's thumb was stroking his neck and Mycroft realized he was leaning into the touch, soaking up the affection from the DI.

God, this was lovely. He'd forgotten how much he liked this sort of thing, human contact, when his job was to be as cold and unyielding as he could with nearly everyone he dealt with in business. That was probably why he melted so readily under Greg's touch, craving that contact he'd forgotten even existed. That, and the fact that he was already so tired and the touch made him more so, sleepy and content and, just for a minute, relaxed. He could forget for a little while that his brother was banged up in a room down the hall, he could almost forget that both he and Greg had been wounded, and he could certainly forget that he didn't allow people very close to him, physically or otherwise.

As Greg spoke, the words processing a few seconds behind when they were spoken, Mycroft carefully studied him, more out of habit than anything. The DI was flushed--more out of embarrassment than anything--had an elevated heart rate judging by his heart monitor, was speaking quickly--another sign of nerves--and overall sounded positively giddy with a tinge of hope thrown in. Oh. He was asking for a kiss. Mycroft colored slightly at the last statement from the DI, thinking that he most definitely wanted to find out what Greg meant with that grin, and then quickly focused back to the question at hand.

"Ah, of course, a kiss goodnight. It'd only be the chivalrous thing for me to do, I must agree, and I would be delighted," he said with a soft smile. "And we'll see about me getting some rest later, I'm rather intrigued," he admitted with a slightly teasing smile. "I really did have a wonderful time tonight, Gregory, aside from the attack, of course. I would love to continue this another day when neither of us has been injured or attacked." And then he leaned up and forward so he could press a soft kiss to Greg's lips, disentangling the hand that was entwined with Greg's so he could cup the other man's cheek with his hand and pull him just a little closer.

That wasn't a lie, either. He'd had the best night he'd had in a long time tonight--aside from all the attacks of course. Greg had been, well, wonderful...a kind, empathic, intuitive and intelligent man who had kept up with Mycroft and continually surprised him, a difficult task for anyone. He didn't regret a single part of their date, as everything had been lovely. Mycroft had allowed himself to open up and Greg had welcomed it and even fostered it, gently coaxing more from the man and making him more relaxed around another human being than he had been in a very long time.

He honestly craved more of it. He craved more of their easy conversation, more of their flirtatious banter, more of their hand-holding and casual touching, more of their connection, and more of this. Kissing. Lovely languid kissing that he really didn't want to end but he had to if he actually wanted Greg to sleep, and he really did want the other man to rest considering his rather serious wound.

So he pulled back slowly, eyes blinking languidly and contentedly back open as he pulled away and smiled at Greg, laying a final soft kiss on the other man's forehead before completely sitting back in his chair and taking Greg's hand in his own. "Another night, then, when all of this has settled down, we'll have to continue our date," he said. "Until then, you should rest, Gregory. You really did make the night a pleasure."

\---------------------

For all the hammering his heart had been doing during his awkwardly phrased request, Lestrade's heart froze the moment Mycroft's soft lips brushed against his.  All of the DI's senses swam; fully intoxicated not only by his medications but by the closeness of the man next to him. Mycroft's lips were silken and smooth, but the force behind them firm creating a delicious contrast.  It was more than likely his imagination, he knew, but Greg could have sworn that he tasted just the barest hints of cinnamon and mango.  And with Mycroft so very close, he could hear the soft sound of the other man's steady, even breaths and smell the subtle earthy scent of his undoubtedly expensive cologne.  Any one sensation would have been enough to nearly overwhelm Greg, but combined they created a heady cocktail that made his head spin and every nerve in his body thrum in time with each soft movement of Mycroft's mouth.

It was beyond heavenly.  Or at least Greg thought so, until the elegant politician disentangled their fingers and raised his hand to the side of the DI's face.  As the tips of those dexterous cellist's fingers caressed the arch of his cheekbone Greg's entire body trembled slightly at the contact.  God.  The man was unraveling him with a simple, rather chaste kiss.  And Lestrade was loving every delicious second of it.

It was still almost unbelievable, this connection between them.  Seeing ( _feeling_ , his mind whispered as that sinfully soft mouth moved against his) this side of Mycroft was a degree of intimacy beyond compare.  Staid, reserved, **cold** Mycroft Holmes had shared pieces of himself that Greg knew he had to have spent the better part of his adult life carefully locked away.  It was breathtaking, the degree of trust that the other man put in him when he displayed his well guarded emotions.  Humbling, how intimate he was willing to be; gifting Greg with genuine smiles and truth and concern and sentiment, all the while trusting that the DI wouldn't use any of these slices of honesty to slash at his exposed psyche.  

Whatever it was that Mycroft saw in him that allowed him to be so comfortable, Greg was both flattered and confused while remaining infinitely grateful.  It wasn't, after all, like he had a hell of a lot to offer someone, let alone someone like the handsome politician whose hand was still resting against his face.  But Lestrade wasn't going to argue that point; that Mycroft Holmes deserved better than a worn-out, rather ordinary Detective Inspector.  For some wholly unknown and simply amazing reason Mycroft had decided that Greg did indeed deserve that trust, that honesty, and that intimacy.  Lestrade wondered to himself if he would ever cease to be amazed at that.

As the auburn haired man pulled back slowly, Greg couldn't help but gaze into the other man's storm cloud blue eyes.  The politician blinked slowly, as if coming out of some sort of dream.  The sweet, open look on his face filled the DI's chest with a rapidly uncoiling warmth, and he felt his mouth turn up into a beaming smile.  No.  There was no question about it, Greg thought to himself as Mycroft placed a final soft kiss on his forehead, he would always be amazed.  For however long he was lucky enough to be blessed with Mycroft's attentions he knew he would be in constant amazement; as if the truth of it had been etched into his bones, tattooed along his nerves and woven into every muscle fiber.

Greg wanted to be able to say something clever, or lovely in response to Mycroft's praise.  Hell, he would have settled for being able to say anything at all.  But the lovely effects of their kiss still sang through his system, rendering him effectively speechless.  All he could do was hum happily in the back of his throat as he reluctantly pulled back from Mycroft, settling into the hospital bed.  After a few moments of fighting back yawns and holding burning eyes open, Lestrade finally gave in and closed his eyes. letting the last of the tension not washed away by Mycroft's kiss seep from his exhausted frame.  It was hard to be anxious about dreams with the entirety of the British Government watching over him.

"Mycroft Holmes, you are bloody amazing," he managed to murmur in a sleepy voice, before finally letting the no-longer frightening tendrils of sleep to wrap around him and pull him back into unconsciousness.

\---------------------

Even falling asleep, the man managed to surprise him. Mycroft smiled to himself as Greg fell asleep, watching as the hardened DI finally became peaceful. He looked...well, he looked younger. Like ten years had just dropped right off of his face, the worry and the care and exhaustion and just worn-out appearance disappearing like they'd never existed. Mycroft wished he could make him look like that all the time. Relieve him of some of the burden he bore. The instinct to take care of Greg ran so strongly through him that even now when Greg was peacefully resting, Mycroft still fought the urge to rest that was making his eyelids heavy. He had to watch over him. He had to be awake in case Sherlock woke up. He had to keep working.

Instead, he ended up laying his head on the bed next to his and Greg's intertwined hands, exhausted by the day and the wound on his arm and before he knew it he was falling asleep breathing in the scent of disinfectant and that clean but masculine scent that he'd been subtly picking up all night from Greg. It was the most soothing thing he'd ever smelled, and he was surprised to find that instead of dozing off for ten or fifteen minutes--power naps came as naturally as breathing to him--he stayed asleep for over a half hour before he woke up abruptly as something was brought into the room.

The nurse who was carrying the vase of flowers gave him a friendly smile which he did not return, and before she left, she handed him the letter that had previously been nestled amid the beautiful lilies, freesias, and greenery in the elegant vase. "It's addressed to you, sir," she said by way of explanation, and left again, leaving Mycroft to unfold the letter that was already causing a sinking sensation in his stomach. He should have been expecting this, honestly. Something this major, combined with the fact that Mycroft was actually for once getting close to someone in his life? Time for that to all go away. He opened the letter, and began to read

_**'Dearest Mikey,** _

_**It has been some time since we last spoke and do hope that distance has not erased me from your memory.  After all, while we were never close in a conventional sense, I do like to believe that I made quite the impression on you in the two years of Uni you deigned to attend.** _

_**I must say, I am quite the fan of your work.  Government suits you; the cold, unfeeling calculations and political maneuverings are just perfect for that mechanical mind of yours.  And appearance wise, why you haven't changed a bit.  The only thing that has changed at all is the fact that you've managed to perfect that pinched, holier than thou expression.  Years of practice, I imagine.  No, you haven't changed one whit.  Quite unlike that gangly little brother of yours.  He's grown up to be quite the piece hasn't he?** _

_**And that brings us to our current quandary.  While I could have happily lived the rest of my life not having to deal with your noxious presence ever again, business comes before all else these days.  And you, Mikey, have stuck your foot right into mine.  That pretty brother of yours has been sticking the prominent Holmes family nose right into some of my more interesting operations, and as such needs to be removed from the board.  I must say that I did underestimate him; for all his apparent frailty the skinny little thing sure can take a beating.** _

_**That obnoxious pet DI of yours needs to be removed as well.  Detective Inspector Lestrade is almost not incompetent, which is astounding given his profession.  Wherever did you manage to pick up that mutt?  Or should I say watchdog, as when he is not shadowing your brother, he is obediently heeling to your every command?  Good help is rather hard to find, don't you agree?  I feel that this statement is evidenced by the rather inelegant job my lieutenants have done in attempting to rectify the Sherlock and Gregory situation.  If it makes you feel any better, dear Mikey, they have been punished quite thoroughly for their blunders.** _

_**Their terribly botched attempt made me realize that this is a matter best left for me to handle myself.  Plus, I never could resist the opportunity to play with you.  After all, Mikey, you are so very entertaining.  Therefore, I have a proposition for you.  Well, that's too polite I suppose.  I have a demand. Several demands, actually.  Should you ever want to see your baby brother again, I suggest you comply.  If you want to see him again intact and whole, you should comply quickly and efficiently, without using that rather extensive network of yours to try and thwart me.  For every attempt you make to involve another party, I'll take it out of dear Sherly's hide.  Well, for all that pretty pale skin of his he does seem like a man who wouldn’t be bothered by scars, so let me be more specific.  If you attempt to bring in outside help I'll take it out on his hands; a finger for each attempt.  Starting with the more important ones, of course.  You're cold enough to consider a pinky finger, even one belonging to your darling Sherly, to be acceptable collateral damage.  I think I'd start with the thumbs, to be honest.  But enough of that.  You're respectably intelligent, I needn't go on in graphic detail to convince you to stay your hand.** _

_**You will immediately cease your rather tiresome attempt at dismantling my organization.  I will forward you a list of my personnel to be released.  The rest you can keep and do with as you see fit.  After that, you will use the considerable resources at your disposal to cease the annoying Scotland Yard investigation into both the drug and human trafficking cases.  Given your brother's rather unorthodox and unofficial position, it shouldn't be hard to get any real evidence gathered proved to be inadmissible.  And please do have that pet of yours suspended.  He seems the type to not let go of a bone once he's had a taste.  We should simply make sure the opportunity to continue his work is denied to him.  For his own safety, of course.** _

_**Speaking of, Mikey darling, I do have one final request for you.  This is nothing to do with our current business. No, this is a personal task I'd like you to undertake for me.  Do please stop pretending that you're human.  It was tiresome in Uni and it's just plain pathetic now that you're a grown man.  We both know, extensively, that you have little to offer anyone except the icewater running through your veins.  Please do the poor DI a favor and keep your distance.  I know you well enough to know that you'll get bored, or irreparably hurt him because you simply don't understand the workings of the heart.  It's not your fault Mikey, you just don't have one.  So as entertaining as it is to watch you fumble through your too-courtly and stiffly formal flirtations, I must insist you stop at once for Gregory and Sherlock's sake.  By ending this awkward charade now you'll insure your brother's safety but you'll save the dear Inspector the heartache of discovering what you're really like underneath those carefully acted gestures you seem to think pass for emotions.** _

_**It's been a pleasure doing business with you again, Mikey.  I'll have someone from my office pass along any further instructions I have shortly.** _

_**With Sincere Pleasure,** _

_**Neil Gibson'** _

Neil Gibson. Just the name itself was nearly enough to make him start trembling, but he tamped that instinct back down, eyes scanning the letter for any clues that he could find from it. Type of paper used, ink consistency, handwriting analysis--he nearly tore the paper in half out of frustration. None of it was helpful, of course none of it was helpful, Neil was too fucking smart for that and Mycroft should have known, the man always came back to bite him in the ass just when things were either at their worst or at their best. He should have stayed home tonight. Stayed in his office, alone, instead of dragging Greg into this shit storm waiting to happen.

So what was he going to do? Comply, first and foremost. Yes, he had to, at least for the time being. Sherlock was gone. He didn't know how or why yet, that was sure to come in the next few minutes, but he was sure he was already gone and irretrievable. For the time being. And so he had to comply, or risk both Sherlock and Greg getting hurt over him. God, he could feel a physical pain in his chest at the thought, and it was hard to breathe for a minute. Separating from Greg and pretending to be cold to him while also trying to recover Sherlock from the obsessive psychopath holding him just to protect both of them...

Fucking Neil Gibson. Life ruiner would be a better name for him, truly. Mycroft had stopped counting the number of times that Neil had done something to fuck with his life. The man was obsessed. Well, it was probably Mycroft's fault that he was obsessed, considering it had originally been the other way around. Smart, charismatic Neil had appealed to distant, cold, socially awkward Mycroft when they were at Uni. He'd practically idolized him--from afar, of course, though Neil took notice and then advantage. Two years of snide comments, of cruel tricks, of sadism that only seemed to get darker with time...and then Mycroft left. And became the man he was today. Diplomatic. Intelligent. Respected. Reserved. Everything he had strived for throughout his life, and finally he had them and became successful.

And then Neil fucking Gibson came swooping back in, seemingly determined to ruin every aspect of Mycroft Holmes's life that he could. Now he was the one obsessed, and nothing Mycroft did seemed to make him go away, no amount of pain seemed to assuage him. It wouldn't really be over until one of them was dead or ruined, and at the moment, Neil seemed to have the upper hand. Mycroft could only hope that the man wouldn't take it as far as he'd threatened before, and actually demand that Mycroft hand himself over. He didn't know what would happen if he did turn himself over to Neil, but he knew that if Neil asked and he still had Sherlock, he'd do it without a second thought. _Oh well_ , he thought, more resigned than anything, _time to be cold again_.

\---------------------

Movement beside him woke Greg from the first not-uneasy sleep he'd had in quite some time.  Wherever he was it was not his bedroom.  Too bright, too clean.  Blearily, he recalled falling asleep, Mycroft in the chair next to him.  Wait... Mycroft... next to him?  The thought was enough to make another blush rise up the DI's neck, curving around his ears and kissing his cheekbones with a pinkish huge.  Oh.  Right.  They'd been on a date of sorts.  And like so many other things in Gregory Lestrade's life it had gone completely to shit.  So no, he wasn't at home.  He was in the hospital, having taken a knife to the abdomen.  As odd as it was the thought made him smile.  It was a hell of a way to get a first (and second) kiss, but it was pretty effective.  The DI chuckled under his breath, preparing to say something to Mycroft about potential rewards for other heroic injuries, raising his eyes to the man seated next to him.   What he saw made his stomach flip, and not in the all-too pleasant way that he had begun to associate with closeness to the rather handsome politician.  

Mycroft was sitting like he was carved from granite, white knuckled hands clutching at a piece of paper as if it were a poisonous snake he was trying to throttle before it bit him.  Funny that.  Few things seemed to startle the unflappable man, what could a simple piece of paper have done?  The worry evident on that fine boned face was almost heartbreaking.  Test results for Sherlock perhaps?  No, on the table in the corner of the room was what appeared to be a **very** expensive bouquet of flowers.  Ah.  Some political maneuvering, then.  Probably some foreign dignitary somewhere trying to take advantage of Mycroft's injury.  Greg almost felt bad for the poor fool that had decided to trouble the elder Holmes.  Every inch of Mycroft's frame spoke of a man on the warpath.  Some idiot was going to get completely and utterly destroyed.  And again, Greg felt almost bad for them.  Almost.  

"Hey," he managed to rasp out, voice husky from sleep.  "Did someone send you flowers?  I'm not the jealous type typically, but I'm feeling a bit protective today all things considered."  As Mycroft turned to him, he grinned again.  "I may not be able to do a whole lot from this bed, but I can certainly make sure that your secret admirer drowns in a sea of parking violations until I'm well enough to fight for you."  It was a simple, silly joke.  All he had meant to do was make Mycroft smile again.  Because god, Lestrade adored those smiles.  The way the corners of his (very, very soft) lips quirked upwards, the slight wrinkling at the corners of his cobalt eyes... Mycroft was lovely when he smiled.  And Greg was determined to make it happen as much as he possibly could.  The reserved, dignified man deserved far more happiness than his life had managed to provide.  Lestrade was delighted and so very grateful that Mycroft had let him in enough that he could start remedying that rather unfortunate truth.

Honestly.  The bit about the secret admirer was just a silly joke, meant to make the handsome politician grace him with another one of those enchanting smiles.  Instead, when Mycroft's eyes tore themselves away from the paper and met his, there was the briefest flash of bone-deep sadness before indifferent stillness fell over those fine boned features like a curtain.  Greg blinked, eyebrows drawing together as he prepared to ask Mycroft what was wrong when two members of the politician's private security team burst into the room.

"Sir," the taller of the two men said gravely.  He stepped up to Mycroft's side and snapped to attention, outwardly appearing brusque and professional.  But for Greg, who had a detective's eye of his own (if not complemented by overwhelming genius) his face told a different story.  No.  This man was scared.  Terrified.  This large, square jawed, rugby-player-and-a-half sized man was genuinely afraid of whatever news he had to give Mycroft.  His partner, a slightly smaller blonde who stood a step or two behind him looked positively ready to vomit.  Greg felt his own heart drop into his stomach and his heart begin to pound with the beginnings of panic.

_Oh god no. **Sherlock.**_

"We have a situation."  Mycroft simply gave a sharp nod, indicating to the man to quickly continue.  "A nursing team came to take your brother for his follow up CT scan approximately eight minutes ago.  We checked his charts; it was all scheduled.  Even called down to the radiology center, they confirmed that he was on the list under his trauma alias.  Alex," he indicated the anxious looking man standing behind him, "He even went along as an escort, as discussed.  Stayed with him for as far as he could, but he had to leave his bedside when they took him into the actual CT room.  They took Sherlock into the testing room, and that seemed to be that.  Except another nursing team showed up in his room to collect him for the same CT.  They immediately called down to radiology to see if Sherlock was being processed, but the team confirmed that he had never checked in."  Each word hit Greg with a pang of dread that ricocheted through his chest like a gunshot.

_Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, **fuck.**  _

Not only was Mycroft right about there being another attempt on Sherlock but instead of being in his brother's room the politician had stayed with Greg.  Mycroft could have deduced the fake nursing team, but instead Greg had insisted on flirting.  Dragging out their date as long as possible.  Keeping him here instead of encouraging him to be with his brother, even after Mycroft told him that he expected another attempt on Sherlock's life.  And of course, **this** is what happened.  

The DI was vaguely aware of the security officer continuing to run through the known details with Mycroft, but his own mind was reeling too rapidly to actually grasp onto anything more than concepts.  Yes, CCTV was checked.  Yes, they saw Sherlock being loaded into an ambulance in the transport bay.  There were some papers requesting transfer to another facility.  Yes everything seemed legit to the staff on hand.  No, so far nobody on Mycroft's team had managed to track down the stolen ambulance yet.  No demands had been made.  When making that statement, the officer looked suspiciously at the flowers on the table and the note Mycroft was holding, but something in his expression changed when he looked into Mycroft's icy eyes, and he thought better of questioning the man.  A deafening silence filled the room as the politician scrutinized the officer before him, eyes as cold and clear as a glacial lake.

"If you hand me my mobile I can coordinate the police efforts from here," Greg offered helpfully, breaking the silence.  "After all, two teams cover more ground than one and they can't have gotten but so far.  With your camera network and the officers at our disposal we will get him back Mycroft.  We will.  Anything you need, I'll make sure you get it.  If there's anything you need me to do say the word and I'll make sure it gets done.  I. Will. Find. Him." The vehemence in his voice almost surprised him, the force of his words pulling the laceration on his side and making him wince.  Still, it was true.  And not just because he cared for Mycroft.  Sherlock was a friend.  His friend.  His charge.  And now the unthinkable had happened, and Sherlock was gone, at the mercy of some criminal network and unable to defend himself thanks to his injuries.  The same thoughts must have been running through Mycroft's head, Greg realized.  Every muscle in Mycroft's tall frame had tensed considerably; Greg could feel the tension coursing through the other man simply from how tight the grip Mycroft had on his hand tightened over the course of the report.  Unsure of what to do, the DI simply offered a reassuring squeeze in return, hoping against the overwhelming odds that he would be able to offer the other man some small amount of solace in the face of overwhelmingly bad news.

\---------------------

It almost didn't hurt when he looked at Greg. Almost. If almost meant that it felt like his chest was being squeezed by a vice, the pressure nearly enough to make him gasp. Then the veil dropped, and he could hide behind a mask of icy indifference again. The change in Greg was immediate. He was startled, he was hurt, he was about to ask what was wrong, Mycroft was sure of it, and he'd have to lie to him and push him away and hurt both of them in the process and it'd be like tearing out his own heart. Greg would recover in time, he was sure. He would feel hurt for a little while. he'd try to repair the connection, but he'd recover. Mycroft would be destroyed.

If Neil was right and he didn't have a heart, then what was causing this pressure in his chest, this immense pain? Torment. He nearly laughed when Greg insinuated the flowers were from a secret admirer. Neil was a secret, certainly, but he couldn't rightfully be called an admirer. Mycroft's...involvement with him hadn't yielded candy and kisses and sweet nothings and fond memories of fooling around in libraries at Uni. All he remembered was the repeated mantra of ‘ _you're not good enough you don't have a heart you don't deserve love you're lucky to even be here no one will ever want you just give in and realize you are nothing to me because you don't have a **heart**_ ’. Just thinking back to those days, when he'd honestly believed him, when he'd been trapped -- because if he didn't have a heart, why would anyone else want him? -- was enough to send Mycroft reeling back into the black cloud of depression that had covered those days for him. Better to stay with the devil you know than leave for one you don't. And Neil was such a persuasive, charming devil. Even if Mycroft tried to break away, it wouldn't matter because Neil had always known how to draw him right back in, winding so many silken threads around him-- _I love you you're so clever of course I miss you of course I'm sorry just come back I'll make everything better_ \--that Mycroft couldn't see the spider's fangs until it was too late and he felt the sting of them again.

He'd been lucky to get away, really. And it was only when he finally gained that independence that Neil actually started to care, to take notice. Before he'd been a plaything, but now that Mycroft was free, he was a possession. And he wouldn't be satisfied until he destroyed his life. It had taken him a long time, but Mycroft had recovered from the whole experience. His eating disorder was under control again, he was mostly healthy, and while he didn't let many people in, he was at least trying to let Greg in. That was gone now. The spider had laid another web, and instead of struggling in it, shaking it so Greg and Sherlock fell out of it to their deaths, Mycroft was going to lie still and wait to be drained.

When his security team came in, he already knew what they were going to say, but he nodded and listened as they spoke, his heart sinking deeper and deeper with every word. So he was right. Sherlock was already gone. He knew he wouldn't be able to find him, anyway, wouldn't be able to get him back, but he'd still have to go through the tiring motions of an actual investigation just to come up with nothing in the end. Of course. This whole thing would be absolutely exhausting, and he knew he would barely sleep until it was over. Of course, that was what Neil wanted. Break him down mentally, force him back into old bad habits so he'd break down physically as well, and then sit back and watch it all unwind.

Mycroft was busy studying the two agents in the room, looking for signs of deception--elevated pulse and breathing rate, sweating, but this was all nerves and fear--when Greg spoke up. He nearly crumpled right then and there when Greg gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, his icy blue eyes swiveling back to look into the man's warm, sincere, almost pleading chocolate brown ones. God, this was going to hurt.

He pulled his hand from Greg's, using it to fold up the letter and tuck it into the inside pocket of his jacket, turning again to the two agents from his team. He could return to the letter later, if he really wanted to torture himself. "Return to the team and continue working and questioning the hospital staff, I'll be along in just a moment. Oh, and Alex, get me some coffee," he said, and the two men left with a nod. He looked down at his lap, smoothing a nonexistent crease in his pants as his lips pressed themselves into a thin line. Right. He could do this. He didn't have a heart. He was made of ice and stone. You don't deserve love. "I think you'll find it difficult to conduct a police investigation, Detective Lestrade, when you're suspended for the time being from your post."

His eyes lifted to look at Greg, ice and steel and broken glass the only things he'd allow into his gaze. No pity, no sympathy, no caring, no kindness. Greg was just another subordinate who had failed him. "Considering your injury and the events of today, I think it would be best that you take a rather...extensive break from Scotland Yard. With pay, of course. Take your time to recover from your injury, and in the meantime separate yourself out from this case. Sherlock's care is solely in my hands now. I think you've rather done enough on that front." His voice was layered now not with honey but with razor wire, already dripping with a little bit of blood. Every cut he tried to inflict just hurt him even more, though, and he realized from the pressure in his chest that he wouldn't be able to do much more. A brief flicker of pain crossed his face before he stood up, brushing down the front of his vest with his hand.

"In the meantime, you are not to be involved with this case at all. My team and I will handle it on our own, and if Scotland Yard tries to interfere we will have them shut down so quickly that it'll be like they never even began. If we do indeed recover him, it will be my team's responsibility and not yours." No, no, he couldn't finish this, it was too much. His chest felt like it was going to burst. One final blow and he could leave, he could hide, he could run away from Greg and fall apart on his own, if he could just get it out...He made sure to look directly at Greg as he spoke again, trying to ignore the man's expression. "I do not need you for anything, Detective Lestrade, so it is in your best interest to avoid getting involved in this situation in any way possible."

\---------------------

When Mycroft wrenched his hand away from Greg's, snatching up the letter and folding it harshly before tucking it into his jacket pocket, the DI's breath caught in his throat.  The frozen undertones that seeped into the politician's previously warm voice sent chills down Lestrade's spine, and not in the wonderful way that their brief kisses and flirtations had made him feel.  No, this was like a thin trickle of ice water running down his back, chilling his bones and setting his skin to almost crawling.  This was bad.  This was very, very bad.  Not just for Sherlock, but for his poor heartsick brother.  Except concern wasn't what Greg could read on Mycroft's fine features.  In fact, the DI couldn't read anything on the other man's face at all.  It was like staring at a blank sheet of paper; there was simply no information there to receive.

It was almost impressive, if Greg looked at it from an entirely detached manner.  Any traces of the Mycroft he had been dealing with before he fell asleep were gone, winked out of existence as easily as flicking off a light.  In fact, Greg realized that he hadn't seen this Mycroft, the true Iceman, since the very beginnings of their... "working" relationship.  Funny that the notoriously cold politician had been slowly thawing over the course of their work together, and Greg hadn't even noticed.  Now those cobalt eyes had gone cold and steely, the rest of the man's handsome features carefully blank as he delivered stern-voiced orders to the two security officers beside him.  The men turned to leave, and Mycroft's voice dropped as he began speaking again without looking at Greg.  The DI almost thought perhaps the auburn haired man was speaking to himself, for all that the words didn't seem directed at him.  But shocked though he was from the revelation of Sherlock's kidnapping, his brain finally managed to register the words being spoken in cool, even tones.

_'I think you'll find it difficult to conduct a police investigation, Detective Lestrade, when you're suspended for the time being from your post.'_

The words hit him in the chest like a knife, and oddly Greg mused to himself that this was **actually** what it felt like to be stabbed.  He hadn't noticed the sharp, searing pain right away from his actual wound.  But this?  The shock of Mycroft's unexpected words did little to numb their effects; it felt like someone was inside the DI's chest trying to remove his heart with a scalpel.  The sick pain twisted down his ribcage and buried cruel claws in his stomach.  This... this had to be some sort of awful nightmare.  It was the only possible explanation.  But if it was just another bad dream why did it feel so horribly real?

When Mycroft turned his eyes to meet Greg's gaze, the DI expected any number of emotions to be reflected there and allowed himself to hope for a few others.  Anger, fear, desperation, worry, exhaustion, pain... those were all expected.  Greg was unsure how to describe what he hoped to see in those eyes instead, but it bordered somewhere between hope and silent acceptance of his offer to help.  Instead, there was nothing.  Truly nothing.  Not disdain, not hatred... just two empty blue eyes regarding him as if he had never seen Detective Gregory Lestrade before in his life.  The distance, the impersonal edge in those cobalt eyes was almost too much.  Greg's heart spasmed in his chest, wicked ribbons of fear and worry uncoiling and weaving their way through his entire system.  God, he was almost sick to his stomach with concern for Mycroft.  To have lost so much in such a short time... was it any wonder the normally reserved man was pulling away?

_And let's not forget your part in this as well, shall we?  You may be thick, Lestrade, but even you can recognize that look.  You know that look of hollow disappointment.  Janice wore that all the time, towards the end.  She was right to.  As is Mycroft.  You do your best, but even your best isn't enough.  Has never been enough.  Will never be enough.  Especially not for someone like **him.**_

Mycroft's barbed words continued, each as cutting as the last.  And those eyes.  God.  It was like they were peeling back layer after layer of Greg's psyche, leaving him wholly undefended and exposed to the assault.  Like Mycroft had deduced all the weak points in Greg's armor, and was surgically striking where it would hurt the most.  Bad enough to lose his position as Sherlock's handler.  Worse still to have Mycroft take him off the case.  Almost unthinkable that the man would go so far as to have him suspended.  But to completely dismiss him?  To say he didn't need Greg for anything?  For fuck's sake, without the Holmes brothers in his life, without the Yard what did he even have?  A sad, empty flat and a handful of casual drinking friends he saw less than once a month.  That was it.  That was what he would have left after Mycroft left this room.  

The DI's chest tightened again, and he felt nearly torn in two between wanting to rage angrily at the prim man above him and simply breaking down and begging for his forgiveness.  Brown eyes raised to follow Mycroft's face as he stood, and the DI caught just the barest glimpse of absolute torment on the other man's features.  It was heartbreaking, the amount of anguish conveyed in a split second of unveiled expression.  As quickly as it was revealed it was again concealed, but the momentary window into any kind of emotion from the politician seemed to snap Greg from his litany of self pity.

Something was very, very wrong with Mycroft.  Beyond Sherlock being taken wrong.  His behavior was too far removed from that of only an hour ago.  No.  The temptation to give into self pity and blame was strong, and Lestrade knew that he'd still have to answer for his mistakes that led to this whole situation getting so out of hand.  But he wasn't, couldn't be wholly responsible for the quicksilver change in Mycroft's mood, for sudden derisiveness and apparent cruelty.  Certainly his words were unexpected and awful and wrong, but if Greg could just divorce himself from the emotional impact of what the other man was saying, of Mycroft's rejection... Well.  Then he could concentrate on what was really going on.  Despite the desire to just curl up in on himself, Lestrade fought to observe the situation that had unfolded.  To use his training, to look for any indicators about what might be going on beneath the surface that could cause Mycroft to so unexpectedly act this way.

Flowers came.  With a note.  Then Sherlock was kidnapped.  And now Mycroft was pulling back, cutting himself off from Greg and isolating himself.  What was it that the infuriatingly brilliant man had said to him before?  That with Sherlock and Greg out of the way, there'd be no case against either the drug cartel or the trafficking syndicate.  Oh.  OH.  That was it.  That had to be it.  But then why would Mycroft want him off the case and away from the Yard?  Hell, it had been the politician who had put them on the trail of both organizations in the first place.  So.  It had to do with those damn flowers then.

As Mycroft's long fingered hand brushed down his waistcoat, Greg took the opportunity to pull himself upright in bed again.  Before the taller man could walk away, he reached out and closed his fingers around the politician's pale wrist.  The gesture was tender, but firm.  Greg made sure that the strength of his grip conveyed his determination.  He hardened his eyes a bit... if Mycroft could play the cold politician then Lestrade could just as easily use his skill set in return.  Idly, he wondered if Mycroft ever really met Detective Inspector Lestrade instead of amiable Greg Lestrade.  Well, if he hadn't before he was certainly going to now.

"Bullshit."  He kept his tone even, making sure that any heat he felt was withheld.  Even still, the two security guards in the doorway both stopped dead in their tracks.  Greg supposed it was the first time they had ever heard Mycroft Holmes spoken to in such a manner.  Well, were they in for a show.

"I'm not an idiot, no matter what you may be pretending to think Mycroft.  What's on the paper?  What could that possibly say that would make you do this?  Your brother very nearly died to put together a case linking these two organizations, and now you're purposefully throwing every roadblock in the way of these cases moving forward  So.  It's about Sherlock.  Tell me Mycroft."  His voice was low, demanding.  Lestrade could only hope that at least some of his intention to comfort came through, but he knew he had to be immovable in his resolve.  Whatever had Mycroft acting so coldly, it had to be quite dire.  And that meant Lestrade had to be just as stalwart as the handsome politician if he wanted to be of any kind of assistance at all.

"Fucking well tell me, Mycroft, or I'll have Donovan arrest you on your way out of here and take it for evidence.  I'm not technically suspended until they push through the paperwork.  Just tell me what is going on so I can help you.  You don't have to do this alone."  And well, if Lestrade's voice broke just a touch at the last sentence, could he really be blamed?  It was like having everything he never knew he wanted offered up on a platter, only to have it yanked just out of his reach when he went to take the offering.  No, there was no way in hell Gregory Lestrade was giving up on this, on Mycroft, without a fight.  "Please.  I'm not letting go until you tell me what is going on."

\---------------------

Mycroft tried not to show his surprise at Greg pulling him back by his wrist, and even more at the next words out of the DI's mouth. Honestly, he should have expected that the other man wasn't going to give him up without a fight. Maybe it had been wishful thinking, believing that he could just suddenly act cold again and then leave Greg here, confused, hurt, and above all, alone. But then again, this had never not worked for him. If he dropped back into his truly icy persona, the one cold enough to cause frostbite, everyone usually did just what he wanted because who could fight a man who wasn't made of flesh and blood, but rather ice and snow?

And then fucking Greg Lestrade had to come along and do the unexpected, fighting back vehemently and seeing through the act. Mycroft hoped Greg couldn't feel how much his heart sped up through his grip on Mycroft's wrist, caught somewhere between despair that it was going to be this hard to shake off Greg's suspicions and affections, and a flood of emotion at the fact that Greg was, in fact, fighting this hard for him. If Greg had just let him walk out that door without even trying, it would have been easier for Mycroft to write him off. He would have assumed that Greg was like everyone else underneath it all, no matter how different he had appeared, and that thought would have comforted him and softened the blow a little.

Instead, here was Greg, grabbing onto his wrist like it was a lifeline and changing before Mycroft's very eyes into the hardened Detective Inspector Mycroft had had rare occasion to see. But it wasn't the rapid fire, firm demands that had the most effect on him. No. It was when Greg's voice broke, just a little, when he said Mycroft wasn't alone. Mycroft could feel himself shattering at those words, his already fragile heart taking that as a sign that it was no longer needed and could just give up now. He didn't feel pain, then. He just felt hollow. Like hurting Greg like this was taking away his humanity, truly turning him into the heartless creature he'd long been accused of being.

No. No. No, Mycroft. Now was the time to be angry. Now was the time to be strong. Now was the time to be firm and quick with Greg, make a clean cut and get away as quickly as possible. But Mycroft found himself unable to speak for a minute, unable to even move as he stared at Greg, brain trying to process too much information as his heart tried to stutter back into a regular pulse. One thought managed to rise above the others, though he wished it'd stayed buried; _Neil is going to destroy him_. The thought that if he didn't do this, if he didn't obey, both Sherlock and Greg would be absolutely destroyed, leaving Mycroft nothing but ice and an empty life, was what got him to speak again, got him to think. What was it that Neil had said all the time, usually with a cruel smirk and a knowing look to Mycroft that often preceeded a bruising kiss? " _A tiger does not lose sleep over the opinions of sheep._ " Neil had liked it enough to get a tattoo of it.

Mycroft slowly and painfully pushed the thoughts of Neil away from his mind, knowing he had no time to think about that at the moment. "Leave," he turned to snap at the two men lingering in the doorway, and they scrambled away, knowing better than to disobey when he was in this mood. All of the anger that he needed left him, however, when he turned back to Greg. No, no, he forced his eyes to harden again as they tried to soften at the sight of the DI so distraught on his account, using some of his anger towards Neil to focus on the task at hand.

"I would advise you against hindering me in any way, Detective Lestrade. If you or any one of your officers attempts to remove this paper from my possession, they will be lucky if they can get a job at Tesco after their rather abrupt and unexpected departure from the Yard. The information on this piece of paper is for my eyes only and if I do decide to share any of it, it will be with the members of my team and at my discretion." His eyes were glittering furiously for an anger he didn't really feel, at least not towards Greg. Never towards Greg. Poor, sweet Greg, who was only trying to help and was only continuing to weaken Mycroft's resolve with every look from those damn brown eyes. This man was surely going to be the death of him, if Sherlock wasn't.

"I don't believe I made myself quite clear enough when I said that you are not to be involved with this case in any way, shape, or form, Inspector. There is nothing further to discuss here because **you will not be involved**. So cease and desist your attempts to get involved immediately or the consequences will be far greater than a suspension with pay." He paused for a moment to regain his breath, and then made a mistake. His voice dropped lower, just a hint of pleading slipping into his expression. "Please, Gregory, for my sake."

He had nothing else to offer the man. No logical reason he could give that Greg would accept, and all of the coldness in the world wouldn't be enough to make Greg stop asking questions. So instead he tried to appeal to him emotionally. Just a little. Just a slip. Immediately, of course, the curtain dropped again and he slipped back into icy indifference like he'd never left it, his features practically carved into stone as he regarded the other man dispassionately. "Now, it is in your best interest to let go of my wrist, Detective Lestrade."

\---------------------

Mycroft's cold, calculated fury truly was something to behold.  The way his stormy eyes narrowed, lips compressing into a fine line, every muscle in his lean body tensed.  Each syllable clipped, every word honed knife sharp and wielded with deadly accuracy.  The man was barely containing an avalanche; a hairsbreadth from releasing a torrent of icy, crushing words that threatened to bury any hope that Greg had managed to maintain through the last few minutes.  Yes.  Mycroft angry was truly a sight to behold.  But if the auburn haired man thought for a second that he could intimidate DI Lestrade, he had another thing coming.  No, Greg was made of sterner stuff than that, because as anyone who had ever been to a Yard Christmas party in the last six years could tell you, even Mycroft bloody Holmes at his peak had nothing on Janice Lestrade.  Or whatever the fuck her name would be once she married that bloody Tory.

No, living with Janice had given Greg the opportunity to build up some formidable defenses against this kind of onslaught.  The emotional armor settled easily into place, Greg's face taking on a carefully neutral expression honed over the course of countless arguments.  Mycroft's words simply broke against the shield of calm the DI managed to wrap around himself.  It was an old tactic; tried and true.  Lestrade knew he didn't have to tune out the cruel words for long, just long enough to finish the conversation.  There'd be time for coming apart at the seams later; the inevitable unraveling that wracked him as soon as he was alone waiting to greet him like an old friend.  No, Mycroft wouldn't be rid of him that easily.  It was like he had spent the entire last three miserable years perfecting the technique that would see him through this argument without coming to pieces.  Well.  At least Janice had turned out to be good for something after all.  

Even as his brain stored away the Mycroft's biting sentences to be mulled over later, Greg's face remained calm; passive but firm.  Once the initial tidal wave of anger had washed over him and retreated, though, Greg's practiced indifference did nothing to prepare him for the momentary look of entreaty that passed over the other man's aristocratic features.  And that plea, that low voice all but begging the DI to let him go for Mycroft's own sake... Greg's heart felt nearly torn in two.  Part of him desperately wanted to keep fighting, keep a tight hold on the politician's wrist and not let go until Mycroft agreed to tell him everything that was going on, and agreed to let the DI help.  The other half, the more sensible and significantly less selfish half knew that he had to let the other man go.  It wasn't just what Mycroft wanted, but what he needed, if the tone of his voice and the split-second of expression that flitted across that beautiful face were to be believed.  

As the cool, detached indifference settled over the the politician's face again, Greg gave a resigned sigh.  With an awful ache in the pit of his stomach, Lestrade realized that he had no choice but to do what Mycroft asked and simply leave things for the time being.  As much as it pained him, he had to let the other man go.  But hell if he was going to do it and let Mycroft continue to think that he had to shoulder everything alone.  No.  This wasn't the end of anything.  Just a setback.  All Greg had to do was make Mycroft see it that way as well.

"Ok."  The word very nearly stuck in his throat.  "If I have to stay out of this, I will.  For you, damnit.  I don't know why and I can't expect you to tell me but goddamnit I will."  Despite his words, the DI's fingers maintained their now vice-like grip on the other man's wrist.  "But you have to do something for me."

"Please, Mycroft.  Please.  Don't do this.  Don't leave.  Not like this."  Greg gestured emphatically with his free hand while still retaining his grip on the politician's wrist.  It took every ounce of strength left in his body to not simply break down and beg the other man to tell him what was going on.  No.  As much as he hated to, Greg had to simply let it go.  Mycroft had asked Greg not to interfere, for his sake.  Mycroft Holmes, who never asked anything of anyone.  How could Greg be so selfish as to refuse?

"Whatever this is.  Whatever's going on.  Just... I.  Please.  I'll stay out of it, if that's what you need.  Because I want to help you, and if that's the only way I can do it then... damnit.  That's what I'll do."  His voice sounded rough, as if the admission that he would acquiesce to Mycroft's demand was being torn from him unwillingly.  Which it very nearly was.  Given his druthers Mycroft wouldn't have to face any of this horrible scenario alone.  Ideally, Greg could stay by his side, offer him companionship, strength, assistance, whatever the besuited man needed to keep going until the job was done.  But if it was important enough for Mycroft to ask in that low soft voice, then it was important enough for Greg to obey despite his desperate want to push through and make Mycroft let him in, assist him with whatever terrible thing was unfolding in the background.

"If I have to let go of you, I will.  Because you asked, and I know what that means.  But only for a bit, okay?  I'll give you your space, and you'll get this sorted.  You'll get Sherlock back.  I know you will.  And when this is all over, you'll tell me what it's about, yeah?  Because I'll be here.  I mean, not here like in the hospital here.  But I'll be around.  For you.  So just come back from this, ok?  We'll go out for a proper drink, and..."  Greg sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand.  God, he was making a real dog's dinner of explaining himself.  One last shot.  One last try to get through to Mycroft.  Then he'd have to let him go, however reluctantly.

"You might think you have to do this by yourself, Mycroft.  But you're not alone.  So please.  I trust you enough to let you go.  Please trust me enough to come back if you need me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post this week! I actually forgot that yesterday was Thursday, of all things. For those of you who are interested, we did indeed choose the name Neil Gibson as a nod to the ACD character, though they share little in common other than their monikers. Thanks for your patience, and I should be back on track with posting updates next week!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft meets an old friend, and complications keep mounting.
> 
> Warnings: Kidnapping, drug use, implied emotional abuse, blackmail, unwelcome sexual advances, general psychopathy.

For a few seconds, Mycroft honestly thought he was having a heart attack. That was silly, of course, he knew the actual signs of a heart attack very well and they weren't limited to chest pains and an inability to form words properly. But Greg's words had honestly made him dizzy, and he felt the need to stumble back and sit in his chair again. Maybe that would help. Maybe that would make the pain in his chest go away. Maybe if he just stayed with Greg, he could fix it. Because Greg's words honestly made his heart cry out to confess everything, to tell him the truth, to stay, while his brain calmly and rationally destroyed that idea before it could even take off.

He was breaking Greg. He could see it in the man's face, hear it in his voice, in those broken concessions as Greg promised to stay away. But only for Mycroft's sake. No, this wasn't working, Greg would still pursue it, he was only agreeing for Mycroft's sake, and Mycroft had to force him to distance himself emotionally, he couldn't have Greg thinking that this was temporary and Mycroft would come back again, even if every single part of Mycroft was currently screaming for him come back to Greg, to not even leave in the first place. God, his pulse was strong enough to make him tremble slightly.

" _I trust you enough to let you go. Please trust me enough to come back if you need me._ "

That voice, rough with the held back hurt and desperation. Those eyes, pleading and begging Mycroft to believe everything the DI said, to listen to him and obey. To come back to him. To stay in the first place. To let Greg help. Let him in. And God did he want to.

" _Please, Mycroft.  Please.  Don't do this.  Don't leave.  Not like this._ "  

If he told the truth, though, it wouldn't end. Greg would instantly be up in arms, ready to fight tooth and nail for the sake of both Mycroft and Sherlock and it wouldn't end. He'd fight harder, he'd start asking questions, he'd start unwinding strings, and then Mycroft would come completely unraveled and fall apart and tell him everything about the past and the present and everything else. No, he couldn't. He couldn't even let Greg continue on with the impression that he would eventually come back and share the truth. It was very likely that Mycroft wouldn't come back from this period. That Neil wouldn't let him go. Or that he would completely break and no longer be the person Greg had known. No, he had to end this, and now.

But his words were failing him. The politician, usually so put together and always prepared with the right thing to say, was falling away in the face of Greg's words and revealing the actual man underneath, the vulnerable man who couldn't find it in himself to hurt Greg. Mycroft closed his eyes for a second, trying to reconcile and wrestle down several emotions at once, and then blinked them open again, trying and failing to get them return to ice again. He opened his mouth to speak, stopped, and failed again on the second try. So instead he carefully leaned over the bed to press a soft goodbye kiss to Greg's forehead. Because this really was goodbye. It had to be. For his sake, for Sherlock's sake, and especially for Greg's own sake.

" _Do please stop pretending that you're human._ "

A feeble beat of his heart. Two, three seconds passed as he pressed his lips to Greg's forehead.

" _We both know, extensively, that you have little to offer anyone except the icewater running through your veins.  Please do the poor DI a favor and keep your distance.  I know you well enough to know that you'll get bored, or irreparably hurt him because you simply don't understand the workings of the heart.  It's not your fault Mikey, you just don't have one._ "  

He could feel something inside of himself breaking and twisting further with each second that passed.

" _So as entertaining as it is to watch you fumble through your too-courtly and stiffly formal flirtations, I must insist you stop at once for Gregory and Sherlock's sake.  By ending this awkward charade now you'll insure your brother's safety but you'll save the dear Inspector the heartache of discovering what you're really like underneath those carefully acted gestures you seem to think pass for emotions._ "

He pulled away from Greg, forcing himself to go back behind the porcelain mask, though he knew a few cracks were appearing in it. Greg had started to break that away from him, started to find the vulnerable flesh underneath. If Mycroft could just get away from him, from this room, from his own thoughts, he could fix it again and force himself back into the isolation and loneliness that had protected him all these years. He heard his mobile go off and turned to look, leaning back towards his chair--though he didn't try to pull away from Greg's grip on his wrist--so he could read the message without picking it up.

**Take a step away from the DI, dearest Mikey. Or we can see how well Sherlock can conduct experiments without his thumbs.**

Mycroft steeled himself, turning back to Greg with nothing but a dispassionate emptiness in his gaze. He could do this. "I will not be coming back, Detective Lestrade. I'm afraid that our working relationship must be terminated due to the events of the night and I would expect you to honor my wishes in that regard. I won't come back because there is nothing to come back to. You have nothing to offer me and I have nothing to offer you. As such, it would be best if we no longer see each other," he said, his voice completely emotionless, blank as if he really didn't possess a heart. He could pretend he didn't if he really tried. "Please don't attempt to contact me in any way, shape or form. Goodbye."

And with that he pulled his wrist out of Greg's now limp fingers and turned away. He went to his chair, tucked his mobile back into his pocket, picked up his suit jacket with the letter safe inside, and then left the room, rolling his IV along with him. He didn't let himself look back. He didn't let himself feel or think at all. He didn't let himself break down. He merely continued on until he reached his team and took control of the very out of control situation, beginning to direct things. And he slowly began to erase all thoughts of Gregory Lestrade from his mind.

\-----------------

Greg watched in trepidation and no small amount of awe as Mycroft's face shifted from inscrutable back to something infinitely more expressive.  As quickly as he had departed, the warm and caring Mycroft from earlier in the evening had returned.  Blue eyes softened, and the expressionless mask of indifference slipped away, revealing the true face underneath.  Mycroft looked terrified, and so very, very sad.  It made Greg ache in ways he hadn't known he could feel; like a hand was slowly constricting around his heart.  The politician's long fingered hand trembled slightly under the DI's restraining fingers; the shivers passing from Mycroft directly to Greg.  It was as if someone had raked fingernails down the spine of his soul, the sensation chilling and painful.  

Mycroft's hesitation and hitched breathing caused a sharp pang to shoot through the DI's heart.  Brown eyes watched carefully as the normally eloquent politician tried and failed to find words; frustration, sorrow and a haunting sort of resignation briefly flashing across his face.  God, the poor man really was in a bad end.  Circumstances had to be worse than they seemed, and they already seemed pretty dire.  Sherlock, kidnapped.  Mycroft, receiving cryptic secret notes that caused him to don his prior icy persona and cut Greg out of everything.  Out of the investigations, out of his role caring for Sherlock, out of the fresh but much appreciated bond they had formed over the course of the evening.  When the politician's stormy blue eyes met his, the DI almost drowned in the grief he saw reflected there.  It was almost too much.  Not knowing how to help, not being able to help made Greg's heart hammer helplessly in his chest.  There had to be something, anything at all he could do other than sit in this damnable hospital bed and watch Mycroft come apart at the seams.

Mycroft's gaze was equal parts pleading and hollow, begging Greg silently for something the DI couldn't decipher.  Just as the silver haired man began to open his mouth and ask what it was that Mycroft needed, the taller man leaned forward and pressed his lips to Greg's forehead.  The gesture was so incredibly sweet that Greg nearly melted on the spot, any words he had been forming instantly dissolved.  The soft feel of Mycroft's lips against his skin sent an entirely different kind of chill down his spine.  For one fleeting moment Lestrade allowed himself to truly hope that the last of this awful storm had passed, and that things would go back to how they had been before all this terrible, troubling interference.  Yes, the gesture was sweet and courtly, just like Mycroft himself.  Greg allowed himself to believe it was a small peace offering; a gesture of trust and acceptance.  For a few fleeting seconds, he was almost happy.

Then he heard the vague chime of mobile.  Mycroft twisted to the side and leaned away slightly, glancing down at the chair where the offending device chirped.  Greg couldn't see the message, but he could read the reaction in the politician's face and didn't need to know the exact words.  Whoever had those flowers delivered, whoever was fucking with Mycroft and making him disassemble everything; the case, his connection with Greg, everything... They must have sent the distraught politician another demand.  Because that aristocratic face fell, one single flickering moment of sadness crossing it before Mycroft carefully pulled the cold mask of emptiness back over his features.  For a single moment, Greg thought there could be nothing more painful than watching blank indifference settling over those features again.  Then Mycroft spoke, and Lestrade realized how wrong he was.

" _I won't come back because there is nothing to come back to. You have nothing to offer me and I have nothing to offer you._ "

The words hit Lestrade in the chest as surely and soundly as an actual blow, the pain of them reverberating down through his ribs and settling like an unshakable sickness in the pit of his stomach.  Doubt crackled through his heart, fissures deepening and scoring too close to his true center of self.  That was not how he expected the other man to react.  That was... No.  This was wrong.  Surely Greg had misheard, misunderstood.  Hadn't he done the right thing, letting Mycroft go to take care of whatever the hell was going on?  Reassuring him that the DI understood what was going on and that he still cared, even if Mycroft couldn't tell him why he had to do these things?  He wanted to ask the now-distant man standing above him what he had done wrong; what he could do to make the other man realize that this wasn't how their story was supposed to be written?  Hadn't they both been living their own tragedies long enough?  Surely this was the point where, in the face of whatever upcoming trials they had to face, they realized how well suited they were to each other.  That what they had, however brief, was worth fighting for?

Except, that wasn't what Mycroft wanted.  For all the openness and progress they had made, whatever was causing Mycroft to pull away caused the man to reevaluate the entire evening.  And Greg, like he had been so many times prior by so many other people, had been deemed not worth the trouble.  Not worth the risk.  Lacking.  His chest felt ready to burst with a chorus of 'why's, but all his words got garbled, stuck behind the wall of tightness in his throat.  Unable to escape, the doubts pressed painfully against his ribs from the inside, heart beating erratically as the first throes of true panic wrapped themselves through its chambers and ventricles, constricting and squeezing until Lestrade surely thought that the trembling muscle would simply tear itself apart from the stress.  But before he could steady his breathing and take control of his body back from the wave of heartache, Mycroft had gathered his jacket and mobile, taken his IV in his good hand and strolled out the door to his room.

Greg sank down into his hospital bed as watched him leave; stunned, mute, and aching as he wondered how things could possibly have gone so wrong in such a short amount of time.  The corners of his eyes burned, and he was almost shocked at the depth of his emotional reaction.  It was just a day.  Not even a day!  A single evening of connection.  Why was it so damnably hard to let go of?  The beleaguered DI fought to control his breathing as his heart-rate finally slowed.  He'd figure out how to fix this.   How to make things better.  Obviously there was something deeper at play here than Mycroft simply wanting to backtrack on their... relationship?  The word was too strong for what they had, but it was where Greg had hoped things were headed.  No.  He'd figure out what was going on, find whoever was responsible for pulling Mycroft away from him like this, and make them pay.  And if Mycroft decided he really didn't want to pursue things with Greg after whatever hold on him was broken, then Greg would struggle to accept it but he'd give the man his space.  He'd let it go.  But Mycroft had to be able to decide for himself, without whatever manipulations were guiding his current actions.  Yes.  Greg could, and would fix this.  It was the proper course of action.  He'd get right to it, just as soon as the crushing sensation in his chest let him.

\-----------------

Broad, tanned fingers reached up to remove the earpiece, tucking it away in the breast pocket of his navy suit coat as a wicked grin spread over full lips, revealing almost too-white teeth.  Oh.  This was too perfect.  Leave it to Mycroft Holmes to over-perform when it came to emotional self flagellation.  Truly, over their years apart it seemed that Mikey had really taken his lessons to heart, continuing to perfect that particular brand of self-hatred that Neil had worked so hard to instill in the fragile young man that the politician used to be.  Repeat something enough times and it became the truth.  Neil had managed to write his truth across Mycroft's very soul; words he had so carefully selected to deconstruct the other man still etched into his psyche over a decade later.  Yes, Mycroft Holmes really was one of his better works.

**Leave your team.  Remove your IV and meet me at the south hospital exit.  No company, please.  Five minutes.  No excus** es.

As he tucked his phone back into his jacket pocket, Neil raked one hand through his short blonde hair.  His smile settled into something vaguely pleasant, but never quite touched his cold green eyes.  At first he had been unable to decide if he was vexed or excited when he found out Mycroft's involvement in the persecution of his... business arrangements... with the various ragtag gangs that he had organized into a swift, efficient, and most importantly profitable network of criminal activity.  Now, hearing the obvious pain in Mycroft's voice as he cut himself off from that silly, stubborn DI through the microphone nestled artfully in the bouquet, Neil did have to admit that he was glad that the aristocratic politician was involved.  For all the man's obvious flaws, no one had managed to extricate themselves from Neil before.  Mycroft was, quite literally, the one that got away.  So Neil got to not only defend his operations, but finally finish what he had started no few years ago, and finish the emotional and mental destruction of Mycroft Holmes.  For all that the investigations had cost him in manpower and profit, this week really was starting to look up.

Emerald eyes flickered furtively at his watch.  Four more minutes.  An impatient foot began to tap out a steady rhythm on the concrete as the blonde man shifted his position to lean against the side of his towncar.  Yes.  It was always good to conclude unfinished business.  And with the tools currently at his disposal, made available to Neil thanks to Mycroft's regrettable tendency to form emotional attachments.... Well. This time when he finished with the man's fragile psyche any business between them would be concluded permanently.

\-----------------

Mycroft was exceedingly proud of the fact that the shaking in his hands disappeared as he worked, his body and mind finding comfort in the familiar actions. He was at home when he was buried in paperwork, in CCTV footage, in government agents and clear-cut facts as opposed to emotions and half formed deductions. Both he and his brother were brilliant at what they did, but it really all boiled down to extremely educated guesses, so he was always happy to have data and figures in front of him that couldn't be wrong. It was hard to miss things in lines of code, though easy to get lost in them. And he wanted to get so far lost that he wouldn't have to face the real world again.

That world was doing him no favors at the moment. It had taken his brother, let a sociopath waltz back into his life, and had shown him the most wonderful feeling in the world, the best connection he'd ever had, and then snatched it away from him painfully, brutally. Cutting himself off from Greg hadn't been a clean, surgical cut, done quickly and efficiently. It had been drawn out, bloody, messy, and left him a wrecked mess, wounds raw, open, and bleeding. He wanted to cauterize his entire body with cleansing fire, and that was hardly a metaphor. He was already thinking of old scars that had never faded, marks he would use occasionally to remind himself of who he used to be.

Mood congruent memory. He wished he hadn't taken psychology. It was painful to know exactly what he was slipping into as he slipped into it. Mood congruent memory. It was a vicious, self-feeding cycle. He was depressed, all of his memories would be depressing as well. As he thought more about his depressing memories, he'd become more depressed. And the worse his depression got, the more likely it was that he'd slip back into bad habits and there'd be no one to save him because he'd pushed away the one person who'd wanted to help. Who could help. No, he hadn't just pushed him away. He'd **shoved**.

And just like that, his hands were shaking again. He nearly spilled some of his coffee on himself before setting it down. Greg. _**Greg**_. Jesus fucking Christ, Greg. Yes, shoved was the appropriate term. He had emotionally shoved Greg away from himself, and most likely lost the man forever. Greg would believe him now, most likely. He, like so many others before him, would believe that everything he'd believed was true and Mycroft Holmes was nothing more than ice and stone, a man without a heart. What was that jaunty little tune from that movie? "If I Only Had a Heart"? He nearly laughed. Oh, he was a particularly brutal Tin Man, wasn't he?

He didn't start as his mobile chimed--it'd been going off for the past few minutes anyway -- but picked it up and pressed his lips into a thin, hard line as he read the message.

**Leave your team.  Remove your IV and meet me at the south hospital exit.  No company, please.  Five minutes.  No excuses**.

He should have known the bastard wouldn't be satisfied with the amount of blood he'd drawn tonight. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, calmly getting up and beginning to make his excuses. He just needed fresh air. Yes, he was going outside the hospital. No, he did not need an escort and would not tolerate one. Why? Because his brother was missing and a moment alone to think about it was the least his team could do. They couldn't really argue with that one, and he was glad they didn't as he walked for the exit. The IV was left somewhere along the way, he'd pay hell for that later but at the moment the pain meds were still working, and headed towards their rendezvous point.

This, he thought as he walked out the door and saw Neil Gibson lounging casually against a town car, was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment. He wanted to have Sherlock back, safe. He wanted to go see Greg and confess everything and fall apart next to his hospital bed. He wanted to go back to every bad habit he'd ever known, go back inside and binge himself on sugary sweets, only to purge it all later because it felt so easy to hate himself and he'd gotten used to the taste of bile long ago. Every time he emptied his stomach, it had always made him feel empty in general. Empty inside, hollow and blank. Apathy was better than his own stew of self-hatred, though one fed into the other and both felt addictive to him. And right now, he would kill for a little apathy.

Instead he got a wave of revulsion, pain, sadness nearly strong enough to knock him off his feet as he saw Neil practically smirking at him. He didn't look that much different, actually. Older, yes, with a little gray around the edges of the blonde, but those emerald green eyes were still as striking and cold as ever, cutting into Mycroft before he could even think. He drew his masks and walls and shields up around him, gathering them all close to him so he could give no indication to this man of the actual effect he had on him. The shaking that started again in his hands, the stuttering beating of his heart, and that snakelike fear that reared up in the back of his mind and slithered its way down into his chest, coiling there and hissing softly every second he spent here. He'd forgotten how being near Neil made him feel. How wrong and at the same time right it was.

_"Hello, I'm Neil Gibson."_

_"M-Mycroft Holmes. It's a pleasure."_

_That hadn't been a lie at the time, either. He'd seen Neil around campus, in class, always watching and admiring how the other man acted. So charismatic. So effusive and well-acted and perfect. Everything Mycroft could never hope to be. And yet the other man was smiling at him, genuinely, it seemed, though there was something wrong with his eyes. They looked predatory. Mycroft couldn't fathom why they would be. Not yet._

"Good evening, Neil," he said, memories from his past echoing in his words. He smiled, thin, bitter, not the least bit genuine. "It's been awhile."

\-----------------

At the sight of Mycroft's approach, Neil's smile almost became genuine.  Certainly not from actual happiness at seeing his old schoolmate, but mostly because of the opportunities for entertainment that the auburn haired man provided.  Had it been anyone else in Mycroft's position, Neil simply would have handed arrangements for kidnapping, torture, and other intimidation tactics down to one of his lieutenants.  But this wasn't just some nondescript minor government official, this was Mycroft Holmes.  And Mycroft always got Neil's personal touch.  The dashing blonde just couldn't help it.  Something about the way those grey-blue eyes watered when dealt a particularly cruel barb was positively addictive.  It was impossible to stay above it all and keep his hands clean when darling Mikey was involved.  The man was just too fun to play with.

"Mycroft," he purred, eyes narrowing as his lips drew into what might have passed for a smile were it not for its hungry edge.  "It has been awhile.  Quite awhile."  Gibson pushed himself off the car, crossing the distance to Mycroft in three long strides.  With mere inches between them, he could see the slight tremors in the other man's shoulders.  The sight of the politician's vulnerability made something feral and ravenous uncoil inside him, and he took the final step forward, bridging the gap between them and wrapping one sinuous arm around Mycroft's waist.

A single firm tug pulled them flush.  They stood chest to chest, verdant eyes boring into cobalt.  Mycroft had continued to grow after his departure from Uni; they were almost of a height now with Neil barely edging out the politician by just over an inch.  The younger man looked positively panicked.  Desperately trying to fight it back, but terrified all the same.  Excellent.

"What's the matter, Mikey?  Haven't you missed me?"  Neil's voice was honey and venom. He pressed the palm of his hand against the small of Mycroft's back, chuckling darkly under his breath as the other man instinctively pulled away from the touch, which only served to push him further up against Neil.

"After all," he continued, stomach fluttering with delight at Mycroft's slight wince.  "It's not as if you've found someone else that puts up with you.  At least not anyone whom you don't pay a handsome salary to, anyway."  The corner of the other man's mouth gave the slightest downward turn at those words, and the blonde had to bite back a laugh.  Oh, Mycroft certainly had gotten better about not wearing his emotions on his sleeve, but Neil Gibson could still read him like an open book.  After all, he had helped to author some of his very favorite parts of Mycroft's shattered psyche.  And to think it had all started with a silly bet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_"Oi, check it out Neil.  Your little stalker is back."  The brunette (her name inconsequential and therefore lost at this point to Neil's memory) gestured to the slight framed, auburn haired student lingering across the hallway.  "Creepy little fuck, inn't he?"  Neil's green eyes raked over shoulders much broader than his narrow waist, long arms wrapped around a stack of books clutched protectively to his suited chest and smiled._

_"I don't know.  He's not so bad to look at."_

_"But the way he just moons after you!  He's never even once approached.  He just stares at the back of your head in class.  Doesn't it freak you out?"_

_"Why, should it?  Does he look the least bit intimidating to you?"_

_"Well, no... but he's... well, he's just weird, ok!  He's too smart and he doesn't have any friends at all and just looks at people and tells them things about their lives that he couldn't possibly know!"_

_"So, you're intimidated by his intelligence, and his powers of observation?"  Neil scoffed.  "Please, he's harmless!  If he had half the mind he was credited as having, he'd use that talent to get himself ahead.  Instead he just awkwardly stammers out information about people as if they didn't know it about themselves already, and wonder why it is that folks tell him to piss off instead of inviting him out for a drink."_

_"Yeah well.  Who'd want to go out for a drink with him?  He looks way too proper to have any kind of a good time.  Probably the in home at bed by ten type."_

_"Aw, come on."  Neil's grin became predatory, thinking about all his observations of Mycroft.  The poor young man did look so lost, so lonely.  Two very powerful chips in getting under someone's skin.  Just a taste of sugar, and Neil knew he could have the auburn haired man drinking vinegar right out of his hands and begging for more.  "It's usually the straight laced ones that get the wildest when they finally let go."_

_"Yeah, well.  Even with this creepy little crush he has on you, I'd bet you a hundred quid that you can't get the posh little twat to give you a decent snog, let alone a shag.  I mean, look at him for chrissakes!  I doubt the bastard has ever relaxed in his life.  Probably doesn't even know what fun is."  Neil barked a short, sharp laugh at his friend's words._

_"You're on.  I'll get the kiss tonight.  Give me a week to get him in bed."  Emerald eyes raked over the thin form of the younger man across the hallway, taking in the slight inward curve of his shoulders, the slight incline of his head to the floor, the overall awkward and vulnerable body language that he put off.  "No, nevermind.  Five days.  Maximum."  And with a quick turn of his heel, Neil strode across the corridor.  As he walked past Mycroft, he brushed up against the smaller man with his shoulder, jostling him slightly.  Putting on his most charming smile, he turned and met the young man's apprehensive cobalt gaze._

_"Sorry!  So sorry.  These halls can be a bit of a hassle, hmm?  A bit crowded."  Neil let his lips curve into his very best smile, the one normally reserved for getting him out of trouble or currying favours.  "Hello, I'm Neil Gibson."_

_"M-Mycroft Holmes.  It's a pleasure."  The younger man's voice was soft as he stuttered through his first name, storm cloud blue eyes widened in shock.  The poor thing looked like a deer in the headlights; completely taken by surprise and unknowing how to react to simple social niceties.  Brilliant.  The quiet little mouse must be starved for some attention, then.  Fuck five days, Neil was certain in that moment he could bed Mycroft in three or less._

_"Right!  Mycroft Holmes.  I've seen you around.  You're quite the prodigy, aren't you?  Best test scores in every class you've taken, despite being at least two years younger than anyone in your classes.  Aren't you in my advanced physics course?"  Shyly, the younger man nodded his head, a slight blush of color spreading through his high cheekbones._

_"Fantastic accomplishment!  After all, the prerequisites are quite grueling and I thought the class itself wasn't even open to underclassmen."  Again, he smiled, trying to look thoughtfully impressed.  "You really must be something, Mycroft Holmes.  I admit, I'm intrigued."  Another blush instead of an answer.  Really, this was hardly going to present a challenge at all!  Well, it was just a quick shag to prove his point.  And maybe, if Mycroft proved to be as clever as he seemed, Neil could keep him around and make use of that big brain of his._

_"Tell you what.  I have to run to class in a few minutes, but I'm curious about how you got here!  It's got to be some story."  Another flash of white teeth.  "I'd love to hear it.  Meet me in the quad at six thirty?  I've got a car, I can take us off campus."  He gestured around them to the swarming throng of people.  "Somewhere quiet.  You seem like a quiet soul.  Wouldn't it be nice to just get away from this noise for a bit?  I know I need to.  Be kind and indulge me so I don't have to go alone?"_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So few things had changed.  As easy as it was to hook Mycroft then, it was just as easy now.  Different buttons to push but effective all the same.  Neil gave a too-familiar brush of his fingers across the waistband of Mycroft's trousers as he pulled his hand away.

"Why don't you join me in my car for a moment, Mikey?  I have something I'd like to discuss with you in private.  Don't worry.  I'll let you get back to your team before they start to worry.  That is if they even notice or care that you're gone."

\-----------------

It was amazing, really, that no matter how long he was apart from this man, he felt exactly the same upon seeing him again. Like he was still the quiet, shy, scared kid at Uni, spooked by any kind of social interaction and unable to break free from the hold that this one unfortunate man had on him. He kept telling himself as Neil walked over to move, to run away, to back up, to do something, but he only managed to stand still and let Neil wrap his arm around his waist, already drowning in the poisoned honey that Neil positively oozed. He was terrified. He knew it was probably showing, and the worst thing to do when faced with a predator was show it your weakness.

Because Neil was a predator, there was no other way to describe him. He fed off of the pain of others, and particularly Mycroft's pain. It was obvious in every carefully composed expression that was designed to look like real emotion but always had a hint of something feral in it, a darkness lying underneath. He'd been successful at hiding it for years, had even hidden it from Mycroft when they first met, but then Mycroft had become intimately aware of Neil's every expression and even now, years away from where they'd once been, he could see the gleaming teeth under Neil's white ones, the animal waiting, delighted, to tear Mycroft apart. It nearly made him shiver, and did make him wince when he stepped into a trap as he pulled away from Neil's hand on his back, only to find himself closer to the other man than before. Lovely. He was falling into the same traps he had at Uni.

Well, Neil was the same person he had been then. Chipping away at the peeling paint in the corners of Mycroft's brain until all the walls were bare and he could paint his own version of a masterpiece. Mycroft had painted over all those walls a long time ago but Neil was doing his best to tear it all down again, and succeeded in tearing down a significant strip of wallpaper when he said there was no one who put up with him who he didn't pay. _Greg_. Greg wanted to be near Mycroft, had practically fallen over himself to be near Mycroft, had pulled Mycroft back desperately even as Mycroft tried to pull away. Greg actually wanted him --  _nobody really wants you_ \-- and was willing to fight for him. He'd said as much.

Mycroft tried to hold onto this thought as Neil brushed his fingers against the waistband of his trousers -- far too close for comfort, if one of his arms hadn't been in a sling he'd have shoved him away as hard as possible, only that was a lie because he couldn't move -- and invited him into the car. A private matter. Alone. Trapped in a car. With Neil. Some little part of him, the voice in the back of his brain that was still an awestruck Uni student jumped at the chance. The rest of Mycroft's brain wrestled him down immediately. God, he was going to say yes, wasn't he? Yes for Sherlock, yes for Greg, and yes for that lovely little masochistic streak that still ran through him.

"I don't really have a choice in the matter, do I?" he asked, returning Neil's smile, though his was thinner and less feral. It was just cold, a threat to keep his distance that Mycroft couldn't carry out with his body or words. "Knowing you, if I refuse you'll do something predictable like threaten Sherlock again and I'll obey anyway. My team will notice if I am gone for very long, though, they put my safety as one of their top priorities. So be warned, Neil. If you attempt anything...untoward, I can have them here in an instant." The words were stronger than he felt at the moment, and he attributed that to his thoughts of Greg. The thought of their date earlier, of the kisses, of Greg's reluctance to let him go, his desperation to keep him in his life. It was a good thought, a positive one that buoyed to the top of the otherwise dark ocean of Mycroft's mind.

"Now, Neil--" the name tasted poisonous on his tongue "--what was it that you wanted to discuss?" Mycroft asked as he allowed himself to be led towards the car, wishing desperately that he had use of both his arms. In an emergency -- and every second spent with Neil felt like an emergency -- it would be good to have use of both of them. His bound up arm was a weakness, a liability, a hindrance to any defense he might take. Well, any physical defense. His psychological defenses were another thing entirely, and he only hoped that they could endure the battering they were sure to take shortly.

\-----------------

"Why Mikey," Neil's smile was knife sharp as he removed his broad hand from the small of Mycroft's back and amiably clapped it onto the shoulder above his wounded arm.  This really was too good to be true.  He had hoped that after all the work he had put into cutting away at Mycroft the man would still feel apprehensive around him, but the outright fear was intoxicating.  The tall blonde very nearly wanted to drink it up, bite into Mycroft's soul and drain every last bit of terror from him.  

"When I have I ever been untoward?"  With his grip on the politician's shoulder, Neil carefully and slowly steered him towards the waiting car.  The auburn haired man jumped much in the same way that he did when Neil first grasped his shoulder, so many years ago.  Green eyes raked hungrily over Mycroft's form, drinking in every tense muscle, delighting in the stiffness of his gait.  Yes.  It really was wonderful to know that despite the years that had passed, despite the seemingly confident and capable man that had replaced the soft spoken uni student, that Neil could still disarm Mycroft Holmes with a mere touch.

As Neil slid smoothly into the back seat of the luxurious sedan, he turned to face Mycroft who was settling in beside him.  The spacious interior had room for two sets of seats, facing each other.  The blonde gave a quick wink to the pair seated across from him, then turned his attentions to Mycroft, unable to tear his eyes off the younger man's fine boned face as the subtle echoes of shocked realization settled over his features.

"Ah!  I see you weren't expecting to see your darling brother again so soon.  But really, it was only reasonable to expect that you'd want assurances of Sherly's safety before you agreed to anything more than a short visit."  Neil's grin became more sneer than smile as he gestured to the two men sitting across from them.  One was his personal bodyguard; an astoundingly large man of middle eastern descent.  The other was the younger Holmes brother.  Neil's green eyes hungrily drank in the subtle shift of Mycroft's expressions as his eyes flickered carefully over his brother's seemingly sleeping form.  

Mycroft's breath hitched slightly at the site of his brother's face; deep purple bruises outlining cheekbone and jaw beneath an eye that was nearly swollen shut.  Stormy blue faded to an almost sickly grey as he noted the bruises running up pale arms, that disappeared underneath the sleeves of the T shirt the raven haired man had been dressed in.  But nothing compared to the briefest flicker of absolute dread that crossed Mycroft's face as he noted the track marks on the inside of Sherlock's elbow.

"What, Mikey?  I was certain you wouldn't want your brother to be in any unnecessary pain, so I left very specific instructions for my team.  'Mycroft would never forgive me if I treated his brother with anything but the best', I told them.  Now, we're not much for pharmaceuticals at my firm, so we had to make do with heroin."  The politician was doing very well in controlling his facial expressions, but Neil took great delight in watching the man's pulse flutter frantically above the clean line of his collar.  "Still, as you can see the results are much the same.  He's comfortable, for now."  He let the words hang in the air, unspoken threat ringing through the silence between them.  Green eyes studied the thinly veiled, pain etched expression on Mycroft's face for a moment before continuing.

"So.  Here's our deal.  I could use someone with your peculiar talents.  I'd use Sherlock, but as you can see the poor thing isn't quite feeling up to it at the moment.  I'll take you instead."  The criminal's voice was casual but firm, leaving no room for argument.  "I do respect the pressures of someone in your position, though.  Even with our background, I can't just expect you to drop everything and come consult for me on a moment's notice.  No, that would just be rude.  I'll give you forty eight hours to wrap up your affairs and finish terminating the investigation against my organisations.  I'll hold your pretty brother as collateral, of course."

"I do know how well you perform under pressure, though.  So I thought to myself, what could I possibly do to motivate you?  Give our little game some stakes, as they say.  And it hit me."  The slightly older man was beaming now; a cruel and self-satisfied smile stretched across his handsome face.  "So, when I say you have forty eight hours, I mean you have forty eight hours maximum.  We'll be upping darling Sherlock's dosage every six hours.  Because we wouldn't want him to be uncomfortable, now would we?"  Neil gave a dark chuckle.

"We've worked out the dosages perfectly.   He's a skinny little thing; according to my calculations he won't last past eight doses.  So don't dawdle."  Message delivered, he moved closer to the frozen politician, pressing their shoulders together as he stretched himself out across Mycroft to open the door of the car.  "You're free to go now, pet.  I'll have my assistant text you the address to meet.  Carry on, and I'll be seeing you later."

\-----------------

Bruises. Immediate, obvious, the lurid purple and blue drawing his attention first even though he'd already seen them before. Bruises across his face, running up his arms--leading straight to the track marks on his arms. They might as well have been a lit runway, for how easily they led Mycroft's eyes to the most important feature. He couldn't control the hitch of his breath or the erratic fluttering of his pulse. His brother. His baby brother, the one he was sworn to protect, the one he'd led into this mess in the first place, the one that was currently being held as the most valuable bargaining chip against Mycroft Holmes. Rational thought ceased for a second, and he forgot how to breathe.

In. Out. A staggered heartbeat and then he could hear again, Neil's poisoned words falling on his ears. This was his fault. He should have listened when Greg warned him of the danger Sherlock was in, when he'd all but pleaded with him to drop the case and put his brother first. God, he'd been such a fool, and now Sherlock was suffering because of him. Heroin. Jesus, why didn't they just inject poison into his veins and call it a day? It'd achieve the same effect and spare him a long, drawn-out death.

He couldn't think. Pain was ripping at his chest with sharp claws, fragile psyche snagging and tearing apart as he kept his eyes focused on his brother, afraid to look away. His brain still wasn't thinking, wasn't coming up with the solutions he needed, his way out, his trump card to hold over Neil to get out of this. A quick search -- nothing. His brilliant, talented, fucking good for nothing brain wasn't telling him anything but the things he already knew and Mycroft was trying to keep his mask up, the task getting more and more difficult as his vision of Sherlock blurred slightly. No, he wasn't going to cry here. Not in front of this company.

But what Neil was proposing... Mycroft knew this wasn't a casual request. He wouldn't have an option to consult briefly and then go back to his normal life, or continue with anything resembling that life at all. He'd be trapped, caught, snared, unable to help himself or twist free, and he'd be stuck with Neil for as long as Neil had use for him, or until he got bored with emotionally torturing him. Worse, Mycroft would stop responding, numb with the pain from prolonged captivity, and Neil would bring Sherlock back into things just to produce a reaction. No. He couldn't. His job wouldn't let him, his employers wouldn't let him, Sherlock wouldn't have let him if he'd had a say in the matter.

But at the moment Sherlock was high as a kite and passed out in the backseat of a sociopath's car, so he didn't have a say in the matter and if there was anything Mycroft did well, it was play the martyr. He cleared his throat. "Very well then," he said, and cursed himself for the tremor in his voice. "I can see I don't really have a choice in the matter. But I must make my own demand of you, Neil. If I agree to go with you, consult for you, whatever you wish--" there was a lot of threat in saying those words but he knew they would perk up Neil's sadism "--then Sherlock is to be entirely released from your influence. And by that I mean you will not touch him, you will not speak to him, and you will not even look at him. Am I absolutely, crystal clear?"

He finally looked at Neil, blue eyes turning icy as he did so. Yes he was on the verge of a mental breakdown, yes his little brother was strung-out in the backseat, yes this man terrified him and brought out the worst in him, but he was unyielding on this point. If Neil got what he wanted, he would have no reason to threaten Sherlock other than to cause Mycroft pain, and there were plenty of other ways to do that. "In fact," Mycroft continued, "I will not have you threaten anyone I am associated with. If you have me, you have me. There should be no need for petty threats at that point, and I won't stand for any. I may despise you with every fiber of my being--" his voice shook slightly on that, he was playing with fire here "--but I am loyal to a fault. You'll have my allegiance, and you shouldn't need anything further. Am I understood?"

This part wasn't that hard for him. Playing the politician, the negotiator that he would be if this were any other situation, with any other person, in any other position than the backseat of a car with his junkie brother being threatened with a forced overdose. He could be ice and steel if he needed to, even if it was with Neil. It'd taken him awhile to reveal that side of him with Neil, far too long, but it had come out. For all his vulnerability then and now, Mycroft Holmes had been and still was a force to be reckoned with.

As he waited for Neil's answer, Mycroft was slowly, carefully, meticulously shutting down every emotional part of his brain. Some parts were easier than others, and some flared back into life at a slight stir from Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes, but he eventually managed to shut them all down, leaving him blank. An emotionless, efficient machine, that could pass for human on the outside but on the inside was just ice and steel, whirring away for solutions and answers. All he cared about now was data and facts, though he let a tiny part of his emotional side stay out just so he would remain interested in Neil's answer.

He held his hand out to Neil now, fully aware that he was making a deal with the devil. The rational part of his brain could wrestle with this problem later. At the moment, he just needed to know that Sherlock would be safe if he did this. That everyone would be safe. That Greg would be. "I said, am I understood?"

\-----------------

" _Whatever you wish..._ "

Mycroft's words rang through his head, very nearly making his mouth water.  The slightest tremor in the timbre of his voice made it all the more delightful.  Had there ever been three more wonderful words in the English language?  Neil doubted it.  There was little question that with the leverage the blonde had over the handsome politician sitting next to him that would have likely been the case anyway.  But to hear it so willingly from Mycroft's own lips was so much sweeter.  Sweeter still would be making Mycroft eat those words.  Neil allowed his true voracity to show on his face, knowing that he couldn't conceal it from his observant seatmate anyway.  He expected to see yet another flinch or other subtle tell cross the man's face, betraying his fear.  Instead, he was greeted with a deep, icy gaze that sent a small chill down his spine.  That was... unexpected.

Emerald eyes stared back into stormy blue as Neil studied Mycroft's face carefully.  There was something different there, something new that hadn't existed in the man the last time they had met.  Some sort of quiet, frozen strength that the slightly older man was uncertain how to read.  Cold and steely, Mycroft possessed a strength that Neil hadn't honestly believed the other man was capable of dredging up.  The hardness reflected in the set lines of his face and shoulders made the blonde criminal grin with renewed gusto.  Wonderful!  The only thing better than playing with an artfully broken toy was breaking one in the first place.

The auburn haired man's eyes gleamed with the same crystal clarity that he demanded from Neil regarding their arrangements.  And something unfamiliar ( _or perhaps too familiar_ , a voice in the back of his mind whispered, _look in a mirror sometime_ ) raked claws down the criminal's spine, causing the fine hair on the back of his neck to rise a bit.  Instead of the haunted emptiness he had come to associate with the elder Holmes brother, this was a different kind of emotional void.  It was almost as if Mycroft had managed to truly achieve the level of mechanical, dispassionate nature Neil had so loved to taunt the younger man about having.  Normally Mycroft greeted his colder nature with despair, the undercurrent of his deep emotional states easy for Neil to read.  It was part of what made interacting with the other man so very delightful; everything within him was a perfect struggle.  Efficiency versus honesty.  Sentiment versus propriety.  Green eyes bored into cobalt, searching for some sort of tumultuous battle beneath their silvery surface, but came up with nothing.  This was a new facet to Mycroft, one developed during their time apart.  This was the genuine hyperborean, unfeeling, purely logical being that Neil had always accused Mycroft of being, but never actually believed him to be.  Interesting.  And such a far cry from the vulnerable sweetness the man had possessed back at Uni.  Then again, perhaps it was to be expected.  After all, Neil had spent two years systematically deconstructing that young man.  It was only inevitable that some other trait would have settled in where the hope, shyness and gentleness used to be.  Was it really so surprising that austerity and icy indifference filled the cracks where Mycroft's sweetness used to be?  Pity that he wouldn't be able to strip it away from the younger man again.  It was so much fun the first time 'round.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft takes a trip down memory lane, revealing how he met one Neil Gibson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter marks the beginning of a different flavor of TYSK; the Uni! Edition. Wondering how Neil and Mycroft met, what Mycroft was like in Uni, and how Neil ended up getting his hooks in our favorite politician? Wonder no longer, our friends. However, if heaping spoonfuls of Mycroft's background isn't your cuppa, you may want to skip this and the next couple chapters. We'll resume your regularly scheduled angst shortly. <3 Mazi and Cheshire
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Alcohol consumption, general predatory behavior, and stalker-ish creepiness.

Neil Gibson was actually talking to him. Neil Gibson was not only talking to him, but also complimenting him. Mycroft thought he was going to die. Maybe that was why he only managed to blush and nod as Neil talked enthusiastically, jumping quickly from complement to compliment and then to an offer. Somewhere quiet? Well, Neil was right on that account. Mycroft was only comfortable in quiet. The bustling hallways full of people that always surrounded him here was disconcerting to him, and he preferred spending time in his dorm room with his equally serious, honors student roommate, or just sitting in class and listening to the lecture. Well, not listening to the lecture. Mostly analyzing people, bored with the topic because he knew it already or had read ahead in the textbook, and staring at the back of Neil's head. Neil Gibson, who was honestly asking him to hang out later. _Speak, Mycroft!_

"O-oh, yes, that would be lovely," he said, and flushed deeper. God, he really must seem like a stuttering school boy. This was painful. He wondered, seriously, why Neil hadn't run away from the conversation yet, or said "Gotcha!" or started laughing or anything. Instead he was listening with what appeared to be actual interest, and _smiling_ at Mycroft. That made it even harder to speak. "I'm not doing anything at 6:30, going someplace quiet with you sounds nice..."

Too nice, actually, which was why he was still waiting to be the punchline of some awful joke. It had happened before. People didn't like the things that he observed about them, no matter how politely he put it. It had led to hurt feelings and sometimes grudges, and sometimes grudges turned into actions, and usually those actions involved taking revenge by making Mycroft think someone was being genuinely friendly to him and then yanking the rug out from under them. But if Neil was lying, he was an excellent liar.

Mycroft's eyes moved the way they did whenever he was deducing, focusing on individual points, one at a time, and then moving on to the next, slowly putting pieces together so he had a whole picture before he even spoke. "You cheated on the last person you dated but you don't feel bad about it because it was technically an open relationship though the other person didn't see it that way. You only date casually and the brunette you were talking to earlier likes you and you know that but she won't tell you because the person you had an affair with was her best friend and she doesn't want to go the same way as them, casual and thrown away. You also only said 6:30 because your father's going to call then and you want to avoid it, so I'm an excuse for you." He stopped, mortified with himself, as he realized what he'd just said.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that, it just happens. I'm trying to keep it in check, but..." He trailed off, blue eyes darting away from Neil's surprised emerald ones. "I completely understand if you no longer want to do something later. I sincerely apologize, the way my brain works is...different." He dared a glance at Neil again. "I didn't upset you, did I?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Wow."  If Neil's voice came out a touch flatter than he meant it to, well it could be understood.  That was a hell of a lot of information Mycroft had just processed.  Maybe his friend was right, and this slender young man was a bit more stalker-ish than he thought.  But no, that couldn't be it.  Nobody here knew about Neil's strained relationship with his father, so even if the redhead had been digging for information on him about campus that wouldn't have come up.  No, Mycroft had to have some way of simply observing that from his appearance, or demeanor, or something.  

The thought was off-putting for a second, knowing that someone could see through him that quickly.  But then again, the younger man didn't seem to be running.  In fact, he was stammering out an apology, blue-grey eyes focused on a patch of pavement just in front of Neil's shoes.  What a gift.  What an amazing _asset_.  Having someone around that could seemingly produce pertinent personal information out of thin air could really be useful.  And well, it was painfully obvious that for all his intelligence the boy had little to no grasp on emotions.  He was equal parts brilliant and vulnerable.  Neil had to fight down a victorious smile.  

And to top it off, Mycroft wasn't exactly unattractive.  There was something to be said for the tentative, awkward way that Mycroft addressed him.  Something about the blush that colored his neck and cheeks.  It made Neil feel hungry; suddenly aware of a need rooted deep in his stomach.  He enjoyed watching the younger man blush and stammer.  What would it be like to watch him squirm?  Gasp?  Cry?  Oh, he was going to do so much better than a hundred quid off this.

"No, no.  I'm not upset.  Startled, maybe.  Amazed, definitely.  But not upset."  The tall blonde gave the awkward man standing in front of him a genuine smile as he brought a hand up to rest on Mycroft's shoulder.  The younger man jumped as if he expected to be hit.  Ah.  So, not used to affectionate contact either.  This was almost going to be too easy.  Neil left his hand on the other man's shoulder, hoping the continued weight of it would be warm and reassuring.  He crooked his head to the side, carefully considering the shy, awkward, and embarrassed man in front of him.

"I knew you were brilliant, but I have to say I'm even more impressed now than I was just a few minutes ago.  And of **course** still want to see you later.  I really want to see you do more of that," his hand gestured vaguely.  "That... whatever it is you just did.  That is if you don't think me too much of a cad.  Tell you what.  You tell me how you got here, and I'll tell you the whole sordid story between me, my ex, and my brown haired friend over there."

"You did get one thing wrong, though.  You, Mycroft Holmes, are so much more interesting than a mere excuse.  I hate to, but I really do have to run.  Six thirty.  I'll see you here."  It was a statement, not a question.  No, he was not letting this golden opportunity slip through his fingers.  He gave the blushing man in front of him his most charming smile, the one reserved for rich elderly neighbors and attractive TAs, before turning away.

"Looking forward to seeing more of you later," he called out, waving over his shoulder as he trotted down the crowded hallway.   _And putting that nifty little 'gift' of yours to the test_ , he added to himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft could hardly process the fact that Neil wasn't upset because Neil's hand on his shoulder hit him like a bolt of lightning and he flinched instinctively, unused to anyone touching him in an even remotely affectionate way. Sherlock had reached the age where he thought giving his older brother hugs was one of the worst things in the world and mostly played with his chemistry kit and tried to solve the case of the color changing frog when his tinkering had probably made it that way. And considering Sherlock was still the person Mycroft was closest to -- always would be -- Mycroft really didn't have anyone to give him positive attention.

Neil left his hand on his shoulder. Mycroft tried to not find the warm touch completely comforting and failed. Besides, it was hard enough to resist Neil's charms when he was saying such lovely things, and apparently saying them in earnest. He couldn't detect any signs of deception from Neil, no matter how many times he checked and rechecked, and that fact alone was nearly enough to knock him flat. No one had ever thought what he did was amazing before. No one had expressed anything positive about it, in fact, before Neil. It was enough to send him reeling.

“ _You, Mycroft Holmes, are so much more interesting than a mere excuse._ ”

And then there was that smile that just made it impossible to breathe. That smile like, at the moment, Mycroft was the only person in the world, and all of Neil's attention was meant for him and him alone. It was intoxicating and he instantly wanted more. But Neil was off again, with a promise. 6:30.

When the time actually came, Mycroft was afraid for only about ten minutes that he'd been stood up. He was there exactly on time, of course, looking better and healthier than he had in days, carefully groomed and prepared, wearing a particular shade of charcoal that he knew made his eyes look absolutely exquisite, swirling miasmas of varying shades of blue, some green and grey swirled in like lazy curls of smoke drifting over shifting ocean waves. He knew it made sense that Neil would be a little fashionably late, but he was so nervous and undone by this whole affair that every passing minute, second, even, felt like another few feet added to the chasm of doubt opening itself in his chest.

But then there Neil was, grinning and handsome and by god it should have been illegal to look that good in public. Mycroft had to hide a faint blush as he smiled weakly, nervously. "I thought for a minute that you wouldn't show up," he confessed as Neil came closer. "Not that I thought you'd lie, but I was afraid I might have frightened you off earlier. I'm--I'm glad I didn't." He paused, brow furrowing slightly before smoothing again. "But now that you're here, where do you want to go?" He smiled, probably the first smile he'd shown in awhile. It was open, and honest, and genuinely glad to be here, faced with his idol since his time at Uni began. It was hard to push back the little voice in his head telling himself something was off, wrong, but he did just that. Everything was fine. Neil was fine. It'd be a great night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil carefully watched Mycroft from across the darkened hallway, lingering just out of sight as he observed the nervous young man repeatedly smooth over non-existent wrinkles in his suit jacket.  Oh, wasn't that dear.  Mycroft Holmes, all dressed up for was was likely his first social engagement in a long time, let alone 'date'.  A vague swirl of hunger coursed through the blonde's abdomen.

He waited until he Mycroft's uncertainties were at their peak before he made his approach, footfalls softly echoing through the now empty hallway.  Before he got a chance to issue a greeting, the auburn haired man was stumbling over himself, words spilling out of that lovely, thin lipped mouth of his.  Blushing, stammering, already unraveling and Neil hadn't even said a single word.  And he had been worried that perhaps this whole affair would turn out to be some boring, one off charm-and-fuck project.  No, this was so. much. better.

"Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft..." he crooned.  No few people had remarked about how different and captivating his American accent was, and he made sure to put it to use when addressing the younger man.  Every little advantage would help; after all Neil planned to have Mycroft's world turned on its head by the end of the evening.  Figuratively, and perhaps literally as well.  He repressed a lusty smile; years of practice easily helping him transmute it into a flirtatious, appreciative grin.  

"No.  You haven't frightened me off at all.  I'm still just as fascinated with you as I was earlier."  Verdant eyes followed the clean lines of the younger man's suit, making sure just the right amount of appreciation showed in the creases of his eyes and lips.  "Perhaps just a touch more so, for seeing you.  That's quite the suit.  Really brings out those eyes of yours."   _And it really brings out that ridiculous blush you make every time I so much as look at you.  Mmmm.  Is there anything more fun than hunting down and debauching a shy virgin?  Perhaps stalking and conquering a shy, insanely intelligent virgin._

"There's this little pub across town that I like.  It's not a rowdy place.  Quiet, nice atmosphere.  Live jazz.  I think you'll really like it.  It's sophisticated.  Has an 'old soul' feel to it, although it's a relatively new addition to the neighborhood."  Neil allowed himself a soft laugh.  "Sophisticated, old soul.  Yes, that sounds like you."  He extended a tanned hand to the shy young man in front of him.  "C'mon.  I'll drive.  It'll be good for you to get off campus for a while."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft was struck by the tone of voice Neil was using, not to mention the voice itself, as the older man practically purred his name. No one had ever said his name like that, and it caused a peculiar fluttering in his stomach as well as a rush of blood to his face that only increased when Neil's eyes raked appreciatively over him. He'd certainly never been looked at like that before either. Like he was something worth seeing, something desirable even. There was something almost hungry in Neil’s gaze and mannerisms, but it was quickly hidden again by flirtation, and Mycroft's nerves solidified into something real in his stomach, something that made it hard for him to move or react.

He really didn't know what he was getting himself into here. He had no idea, really, of who Neil was underneath the public persona he wore, aside from the deductions he'd made and was continuing to make. Sure, he appeared charming and charismatic and quite lovely, but  there was something putting Mycroft off, an undercurrent he couldn't name. But he shook it off. He had to. He wasn't going to have another opportunity like this, another chance to be here, with a man like this, and he had to take it.

He blushed furiously as he accepted Neil's hand, gingerly intertwining his long, pale fingers with the other's shorter, tan ones, as if afraid the older man would jerk away at a second's notice. "A jazz pub sounds lovely," he said as he began following Neil. "I must admit I'm more partial to the swing era of the forties, but modern jazz can be right if properly done. Though really, you'd have to go back to the twenties and rag time if you wanted anything authentic--" He stopped himself, embarrassed. He was talking too much in his nervousness already. "I'm boring you, aren't I? You're not really interested in a lesson on the history of jazz, nor am I particularly inclined to give one. What does interest you?"

His blue eyes were keen, sincere, as he looked at Neil and asked the question. He was going to make the most out of the evening, if he could, which meant learning more about Neil and his life, even if he ended up alienating Neil by the end of the night like he probably would. Well, maybe he could impress him. Earlier Neil had seemed interested in his deductions, he could always make more. "Wait, I know," he said, voice picking up in excitement as more information processed quickly, his eyes darting a little faster than normal.

"You play a sport, football probably -- or soccer to you Americans -- judging by the way you favor your right leg over your left while walking. An injury then, but nothing serious, could have come from a fall or scrape but you walk like you're used to it, like your legs don't have to adjust. You're used to it, then, which means either an old injury or one that recurs frequently. Old injury is less likely, you walk normally most of the time, just not at the moment, so it's fresh. I saw you only a few hours ago and you were fine, so it's recent. Something happened in that window of time, then. Recurring injury but happens within a specific frame of time? Something scheduled, something regular. You had class, but not the entire time. Something extracurricular, then, and judging from the rest of the data the most likely answer is you play a sport. Judging from your stature and the way you carry yourself, it must be football or something similar."

Usually he wouldn't rationalize himself like this, wouldn't jump between conclusions quickly--that was a Sherlock thing to do--but Neil had seemed amazed earlier and Mycroft wanted him to understand that he wasn't obsessively stalking him, he did actually have the ability to make these logical jumps. Not that it helped him often, but in this case it could be used as a tool to impress as well as to gain more information. That was, if it didn't push Neil away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Mycroft rattled off about his observations Neil could feel his eyebrows raise up into his hairline.  It was rather impressive, once Mycroft laid his thought pattern out for the blonde to take in.

"I do like jazz, you know.  Hence taking you to a jazz pub," he chuckled.  "I don't mind talking about it, or the history.  I play the tenor sax.  Have for years, actually.  So I've studied some history and technique.  And I'm fond of 20's era music myself.  My father did always say that the speakeasy was the birthplace of true Jazz.  But I can see you being partial to swing."  He gave Mycroft another one of his most infectious smiles.

"Do you dance?  Swing or otherwise?  You look like you'd be suited to it.  You have a kind of grace about you."  Neil smiled appreciatively at Mycroft's almost overpowering blush at the compliment.  Lord, the boy was so sweet, so eager for just the slightest bit of human contact and positive feedback.  Perfect, perfect, perfect.   And that thing he did.  That was far better than some simple party trick.  The way that brilliant mind of his strung together individual observations to create a full picture of what should be private information was nothing short of impressive.  Now, how to get Mycroft to direct that peculiar talent onto someone that Neil could use a little leverage with...  Nothing too soon, of course.  And nothing too obvious.  No, tonight was about setting the hook, and possibly reeling Mycroft in.  Using him to bait bigger fish was a few steps off.  So, back to flirtation and flattery it was.

"And you're right.  I do play soccer.  Or... mm... Football."  Neil grimaced a bit at the word, then laughed.  "It still sounds so strange to me and I've been attending college... I mean Uni over here for three years already.  But you're right, as ever.  My knee tweaks out from time to time.  Nothing too bad, mind you.  I'm astonished you noticed at all."

As they continued to walk to the parking lot, Neil placed one firm hand on Mycroft's shoulder again, remembering how the younger man had practically melted into his earlier touch.  As he held the point of contact between them, the blonde let his voice drop to a slightly lower register.  Interested, and suggestive without being uncomfortably forward.  No, he didn't want to frighten off his prey?  date?  mark?  investment?  Any and all would be equally accurate, he supposed.

"I must admit that it is nice to have such... meticulous attention paid to me though.  It's flattering, to actually be seen instead of merely noticed."  The well practiced 'sensitive vulnerability' slipped easily through his lips, voice soft and eyes artfully downcast and he stole glances at the younger man to gauge his reaction.  "But enough about me!  Your chariot awaits, sir."  Neil opened passenger side door of his silver Mercedes with a flourish and another of his best Prince Charming smiles.  Thank goodness for drama and the acting classes his infuriating father insisted he take.  "Shall we?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

God, Neil was complimenting him again and touching him again and Mycroft was having trouble remembering how to breathe. He found himself nearly melting under Neil's touch, his spine relaxing and some of the tension leaving his body. He could get used to this, and that was an awful thought to have. He couldn't afford to think that he could get used to this. There was no way things were going to extend past this night, because that just wasn't possible. Neil wouldn't want that.

But when Neil's voice lowered and he looked vulnerable and almost shy, Mycroft felt his heart fluttering. He so so so wanted to be used to this. He wanted this affection and interest daily, constantly. He wanted to produce that charming smile on a daily basis. He wanted Neil more than he would ever want to admit. It was just so hard to doubt the other man when he looked so...dashing. Chivalrous, really.

"Thank you," Mycroft said, pleasantly surprised when Neil opened his car door for him. He slid into the beautiful car and waited for Neil to get in on the other side before speaking again. He realized he was still faintly blushing and sincerely hoped it wasn't going to be like this all night. Knowing his luck, he would probably be red the entire night. _Great. Making a great impression again, Mycroft._ "This is a beautiful car," he said appreciatively as Neil started it. "The fact that it's a gift from your father doesn't make it any less pretty, but I'm sure you think that sullies it." He blushed again -- that had lasted all about five seconds, huh? -- and smiled apologetically at Neil. "My apologies. I really should ask questions instead of deducing answers."

He ducked his head in embarrassment, looking at his hands in his lap as he twisted his fingers together nervously. "Um. So. You said you've been here for two and a half years, right?" He waited for a nod before continuing. "Well, what made you want to study here instead of in the United States? I've heard that they have quite a few fine universities. I might have ended up studying in the States, if I wasn't concerned about staying close to my brother. Do you have any siblings?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil's smile transitioned into a quick grimace before he caught it.  But Mycroft didn't seem to notice, or if he did he thought the gesture acceptable.  How the hell did the soft spoken genius figure these things out?  Well, ok.  It wasn't a jump on the car, Neil admitted to himself.  He was a college student attending uni out of his home country, and obviously from a wealthy background.  It would figure that the car was a gift.

"How'd you know it was from my father?"  His voice was even, but cooler than it had been.  The old bastard was still somewhat of a sore point with the blonde; the man had planned out every moment of Neil's existence since his conception.  Whether or not Neil wanted to be in politics didn't matter.  No Sir.  Senator Douglas Gibson's son was going to be President someday.

"You know what?  Nevermind.  It is nice," he corrected himself, fondly stroking the leather steering wheel.  "And there's no reason to spoil the evening by dwelling on it's origins.  And don't worry yourself!  I really don't mind your observations.  I don't.  They're just... well... they can be startling.  That's all.  But I don't mind.  You're constantly surprising me.  I like that.  People can be so... predictable.  Not you, Mycroft.  No, not you at all.  You really are _fascinating_."

Neil wove through traffic speedily, driving just a little faster and a little more recklessly than he would have.  What?  Just because he had an ulterior motive or two didn't mean that he wasn't going to try to impress his rather reserved date.  In fact, the more he acted like this was a regular date, the less likely Mycroft was to notice that there were ulterior motives to Neil building a connection with him.

"I wanted to study overseas because, well... it's overseas.  My father and I do best when there's an ocean between us.  As for siblings, I have none.  I had a cousin I was rather close to, but he died when we were young.  I highly doubt it, but is your brother half as clever as you?"  Neil felt, rather than saw the blush that once again graced Mycroft's cheeks, and couldn't help but lick his lips slightly in anticipation.  What was it about the inexperienced ones that was so much fun?

"You never answered my question about dancing," he purred.  "You really do have the frame for it!  Elegant.  Lean.  If you don't I'll have to take you sometime.  I think the only thing my father and I share any enthusiasm for is ballroom dancing.  You look like you'd make a great partner."  Neil emphasized the last word just so, slowing as they pulled into the lot for the club.  He turned his green eyes on his shy passenger, grinning wolfishly.  "And I'd be more than happy to teach you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_You really are_ fascinating _._

Hearing those words out of Neil's mouth nearly made him forget the slight grimace that had crossed the older man's expression a few moments before. Okay, it did make him forget about it, but not before he'd filed it away for later review. He wanted to know the sore spots to avoid them, as well as anything  else he could learn about Neil. But currently that was taking a backseat to the fact that Neil found him fascinating and was driving like an action movie hero and wanted to teach him how to dance.

"I-I would--that would be--I mean--" He stopped, flustered, and realized his flush was absolutely out of control at the moment and if Neil kept this up all night he was surely going to give Mycroft a heart attack. He couldn't handle this much attention at one time, it was absolutely going to kill him. Deep breaths. Right, he could speak. English was something he knew what to do with. "What I mean is that I would love that, and it would be lovely. And to answer your earlier question, yes, my brother is just as clever than me, if not more so, and definitely a better dancer."

He looked out the window, realizing they had arrived at the pub at the same time as he realized his legs might be too shaky for him to stand. His blue eyes flicked back to Neil, excitement sparking in them at the same time as it started in his stomach, fluttering along the line between anticipation and anxiety. He had absolutely no idea why this night had started, or where it was going, but it just kept getting better and that was hard to believe.

"You were right, I did need a night away," he said, smiling slightly. "I like to think it's reasonable for me to stay in my room all the time, because it's safe and I like it, but I forget how nice it is to just talk to other people. Without making deductions about them. So thank you. For inviting me along with you, I mean. It means a lot to me. Really."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil caught something almost trepidatious in Mycroft's large blue eyes as the young man managed to eloquently thank him.  And without blushing once?  No, that was no good.  The older blonde racked his brain, thinking of ways to keep the auburn haired student sufficiently distracted through the course of their date.  Distracted, and hooked.  Neil figured that the attention would work as a powerful enough drug on it's own to keep Mycroft coming back... Ah.  Yes.  Perfect.  That would do.

"Stay right there," he murmured to his passenger before opening his door and exiting the car.  With brisk strides, he rounded the vehicle and opened the passenger side door, offering his hand to Mycroft for assistance.  When the younger man accepted and stood, exiting the car Neil made his move.  One soft tug on the pale wrist beneath his fingers and Mycroft tumbled towards him, ending up imbalanced and a little bit shaken.  Oh yes, and pressed right up against Neil's chest.  Startled blue eyes flashed with equal parts terror and delight.  It was a look Neil could really get used to seeing.

Offering the smaller man no time to adjust or react, he brought his free hand to the side of Mycroft's face, running a thumb along the younger man's jawbone before speaking.  "Well, if you are as grateful as you say you are I have one favor to ask of you before we go into the club..."  Neil let his voice trail off, savoring the rapid fire rotation of confusion, realization, and delight that was flickering over Mycroft's expressive features as he pushed their lips together.  He moved them together slowly at first, not wanting to completely overwhelm his 'date'.  After all, a socially difficult, shy, affection starved boy like Mycroft?  It was likely the first time he'd been snogged since playing kissing games in the garden when he was in the single digits, age wise.  No, no sense in overwhelming the poor boy completely.  But still, it was best to give him a taste of where things were going.  Neil let the very tip of his tongue dart out to lightly trace over Mycroft's soft bottom lip before smiling his best devil-may-care grin.  He didn't release his hold on Mycroft's wrist as he stared down intently at the younger man.

"There.  Now we're even.  You've been needing to get out for awhile, and I accommodated you without expecting to.  And I've been needing to kiss you ever since you set foot in my car, without ever expecting to.  So I think that makes us one for one, Mycroft Holmes.  Now come on.  There'll be plenty of time for more of that later.  For now, drinks?  Jazz?  And I believe we owe each other stories."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft did as he was told and stayed in place while Neil got out of the car, having already figured out what he was planning on doing. He hadn't, however, predicted Neil helping him out with a hand, and he certainly hadn't expected Neil to pull him to his chest. His firm, warm, covered in expensive fabric chest. He wasn't sure whether he should run, smile, or faint, so he settled for none of the above, trying to focus as Neil's thumb brushed gently along his jaw line, because there were words coming out of his mouth, surely actual words being formed by those wonderful lips.

A favor? He wanted a f--oh. _Oh._ That word suddenly took on a new and wonderful meaning as Neil's lips pressed to Mycroft's and Mycroft found himself pleasantly drowning. That was what it felt like, being with Neil, actually. Slow, peaceful, mildly amazing aside from the dying part. But right now he didn't feel like he was dying with Neil, no, not at all. Quite the opposite in fact, as the run of Neil's tongue against his bottom lip sent a surge of electricity through him that jolted him into being very much alive.

Then Neil was speaking again, and Mycroft couldn't believe what he was hearing.

" _And I've been needing to kiss you ever since you set foot in my car, without ever expecting to_."

" _There'll be plenty of time for more of that later._ "

Once again he tried to remind himself that he wasn't having a heart attack and this also wasn't a dream. The furious flush on his cheeks helped to prove that, as well as hand still holding onto his delicate wrist. No no no, this too good to be true. He had to make absolutely sure of this before it went any further. Save himself some pain. "Neil, I-I--" He stopped for a second, reordering words in his head. "If this is some sort of game or trick or ruse or something, please tell me now. I can't handle it if it continues like this for the entire rest of the night and tomorrow you forget I exist. If you're playing with me, I'd rather know now. I won't be angry, but I have to know."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil smiled as the shy young student melted slightly into his unexpected embrace.  Good. Better than good.  Perfect.  But as he turned to lead them off to the pub and the rest of the evening Mycroft dug in his heels a bit, refusing to be led further.  Concerned, the taller blonde turned around, eyeing the younger man carefully as he stammered.

" _If you're playing with me, I'd rather know now. I won't be angry, but I have to know._ "  Was there a word for better than perfect?  Neil supposed he'd have to make one.  Perhaps the word was Mycroft. Such phenomenal genius hampered by insecurity.  It was going to be both fun and effortless to bind the man to him.  His own pet prodigy.  But reassurances weren't going to win this battle.  No, he couldn't simply offer security and expect Mycroft to take it, to trust him, when obviously that had gone so wrong for him before.  Not while there was a much better way to make sure he got what he needed to make the night continue.  Why go on the chase when he could just as easily make the prey come to him?

"I can't... is... is _that_ what you really think of me?"  Neil let his voice waiver, green eyes misting over slightly as he turned his face away, features a mask of hurt.  "What could I possibly have done to make you think that I'd just forget about you?  What part of me did you just... observe that from?  That I would do something like that to you?  What part of me  do you see with that amazing brain of yours that makes you think I could be so awful?"  It was almost impossible to keep a smile off his face when the younger man let the words hang between them in stunned silence, but Neil managed to pull it off.

"I just...  You've noticed me.  I know you have.  I never said anything because I thought you were like the others... just curious.  But then I ran into you in the hall and you just seemed so... nice.  Well, not just nice.  Everyone's nice to me.  But everyone wants something."  A practiced lie that was, at this point, easier than breathing.  And not _entirely_ untrue.  "Not you, though.  We talked, and I could tell that you don't care about my family's money or that my father's a stupid Senator or any of that, and I just thought..."  He took a deep breath, making sure that it trembled slightly on the exhale as he pivoted on his heel, turning his back on the smaller man.  "I don't know.  I just thought maybe you weren't like everyone else.  You don't have to be alone all the time to be lonely, Mycroft.  I thought you'd see that, how alike we were that way."

"Nevermind.  I don't know what I did to make you think I'd be so cruel, but whatever it was I'm sorry.  So, so very sorry.  Look.  It's my fault, all right?  If that's what you really think of me, I'll take you back to campus.  And I won't bother you again."  There.  The trap was baited, now all he had to do was wait for Mycroft to fall head over heels (or was it arse over tit over here?) into it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft had been avoiding the question thus far because he'd been expecting Neil to give the game up once he asked, reveal whatever his real motive was, and yank out the rug from underneath his feet. That was what he was expecting when Neil opened his mouth to speak. Instead, the other man's face twisted up into hurt and Mycroft realized he'd made a terrible mistake. His goddamn insecurity was really doing its damnedest to ruin this for him.

And everything Neil was saying was so true that it hurt, too. Mycroft did understand that loneliness could strike even when you weren't remotely alone, and he certainly didn't care about Neil's money or family or any of that. He was interested in Neil for Neil, and not for anything else. And Neil appreciated that, and understood that, and now Mycroft was fucking everything up because he couldn't keep his mouth shut for two fucking minutes and stop questioning things. When the other man turned away from him, trembling slightly, it was too much.

"No, no, no, that's not what I think at all!" he protested, laying his hand on Neil's arm so the other man would turn to look at him, blue eyes open, honest, wide, and not a little panicked. He had to set this straight, and now, so he didn't ruin anything else for himself. Because he was so goddamn good at that. "I apologize if I gave you that impression, but you did nothing personally to prompt the question. I just..."

He paused, blue eyes drifting to the side and shifting into a sadness that was always just under the surface of his emotions like an undercurrent of dark, unchanging water. "I've just had bad experiences in the past. People in general usually dislike the things I reveal about them, or they dislike me because I'm younger than them and yet I'm in the same classes as them and doing much better. They like to take their revenge for that in...puerile ways. Fake dates, false friendships, petty pranks...I'm used to people turning me away for being myself."

"But you don't," he continued, looking back at Neil. "You seem to prefer the way I actually am to the way I pretend to be. So, of course, I was suspicious. But you didn't do anything to deserve that suspicion and I'm sorry I upset you. Really, I don't want to go back to campus, I'd much rather stay here with you. I just had to ask."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft laid one hand gingerly on Neil's bicep, and for the what felt like the millionth time that evening the taller blonde had to bite back a self satisfied smile.  Really.  The kid was far too easy of a mark.  As the younger man offered an apology and a few admissions about his own isolated existence, Neil almost felt bad.  Almost.  After all, he was being very sweet and charming, so it was unlikely Mycroft wouldn't enjoy himself.  At least for a little while.  The expenditure of energy had better be worth it for the long play, though.  There were few things that Neil Gibson hated more than diminishing returns.  So, best to play it safe for now.  He'd found a soft spot and made note of it to prod at later.  While bound to be entertaining, it was a touch too soon.  

"No, no. _I'm_ sorry," he sighed, turning to face Mycroft.  The younger man's aristocratic face was unmistakably panicked; those large blue eyes practically screaming for absolution.  "I shouldn't have let my own troubles dictate my thoughts about you.  Besides," he laughed airily.  "It's not as if the world revolves around me."

"I'd love to still have that drink with you.  Shall we call it bygones and all that?"  His voice was confident, and his mouth smiled but Neil knew his green eyes still held a touch of hurt and doubt.  Oh yes.  It was time for an Oscar nomination for sure.  At least growing up in a household full of professional liars had its advantages.  Things couldn't have been moving along more swimmingly if he had scripted each moment with Mycroft Holmes himself.  A taste of sweetness, the attention the young man so desperately craved, had him eating out of Neil's hand.

Now, with the threat of losing it instilled, a touch of artificial distance would help sell the reality that Neil might very well walk away because _Mycroft_ was being the insensitive one, for once.  He moved his arm minutely, preparing to take the auburn haired student's hand, but 'decided against it' at the last moment.  The flash of doubt, worry, and sadness that passed across the other man's fine features was worth every false move and emotional play.  He was just so... expressive.  Causing little flickers of hurt to cross that face, Neil decided, might very well be his new addiction.

"Anyway.  Shall we head in?  They have this lager that I think you'll really like, and the band's due to start in just a few minutes."  Excellent.  All that was left was to warm back up over the course of the evening.  With the threat of losing something he wanted so badly looming over him, Mycroft would undoubtedly grasp desperately at whatever opportunity Neil presented him with to further cement their connection.  Slowly but surely he was wrapping the bindings of dependency around the younger man.  Yes.  By the end of the evening he'd willingly have Mycroft reciprocating his affection, and by the end of the week he'd have the young man eating out the palm of his hand.  Then the real fun could begin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft was fucking something very essential up and that thought was making him start to panic. Right now it was just a little thread, a thin wisp of a thing that was slowly, fluidly wrapping around his heart like a spider spinning a delicate web. That web, however, turned out to be iron strong as Neil reached for his hand and then thought better of it and the thread pulled tight, causing a constricting feeling in his chest that was strangling his emotions. He could see the hurt still in Neil's eyes, though Neil was doing an excellent job of covering it up with smiles and confidence and easy flowing words as he got back to the subject of actually going into the pub.

This is what Mycroft wanted more than anything, and yet somehow he was screwing it up for himself. A practically foolproof opportunity had dropped itself into his lap, a chance to talk to Neil and get to know him--and obviously get closer to him since Neil's reaction to spending time alone with him had been to kiss him, which was amazing in itself--and now here he was, tripping over his own words and insecurities and trying not to drown in his own awkward nature. God, why Neil was still even here was a mystery to him.

"Yes, we should head in," he said, though his voice was somewhat subdued by the raincloud of doubt now hovering over him. He'd thought that was going so well--too well, prompting the idiotic question that had hurt Neil in the first place--but now he was starting to have serious doubts about whether he'd be able to recover and regain Neil's trust and confidence and, most importantly, affection by the end of the evening. He was just going to have to try his hardest, he thought as he followed Neil into the pub. It would be difficult, but worth it.

Inside, the pub was exactly as Neil described, low key and sophisticated with a quiet, hazy atmosphere that made Mycroft feel more at ease. The band was setting up on the stage as he followed Neil to a seat at one of the more secluded tables, a shadowy corner that spoke of romantic trysts and noir films and old school jazz. It made him distinctly nervous, but he tried to remind himself as he settled into a seat that it was a good sign that Neil hadn't chosen a more public table, choosing a place more suited to a date than anything else. "So, you said a lager?" he asked as they sat down, eager to please Neil by relying on his judgment. "I'm afraid my taste in alcohol isn't very developed, so I'll have to rely on your opinion, which I'm certain is more educated than mine on the subject."

Neil smiled at Mycroft as they settled into a booth at the back of the pub, noting a slight amount of tension ease from the younger man's countenance.  Some, but not all.  It was almost too perfect, and the older blonde wondered for a moment if the genius across from him was playing him somehow.  But then Mycroft started earnestly asking for his drink recommendations, blue eyes wide and innocent and still slightly shocked and worried from their momentary altercation outside.  No.  For all his amazing intelligence, this one really was as unworldly and innocent as he seemed.  It was like blood in the water, making it hard not to take a bite.

"Well, I can go get us our first round," he offered smoothly.  "I'm certainly not a seasoned veteran of the pub scene by any means, but I've been here a few times before and know what I like.  I'm hoping our tastes will be... compatible."  A subtle flirtation to be sure, but certainly nothing was too subtle for Mycroft Holmes.  Neil gave another patented charming smile as the younger man's previously worried eyes lit up. "In return can I ask you for another favor?"  He said the words sweetly, no small amount of suggestion in his tone, and watched as Mycroft blushed.

"I was going to ask for the story about how someone who is young enough to be a freshman is taking advanced, senior-level courses, Mycroft," he purred.  "But if you really wanted the same kind of favor from earlier, I think I could be convinced to oblige you."  And with that, he stood and talked off to the bar, leaving his words to echo in Mycroft's head while he procured their drinks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil's words were positively ringing in his ears as the older man walked away, and he found himself blushing furiously without being able to do anything to stop it. It was so unfair that that man had this much of an effect on him. He couldn't stop blushing at every other word, and just the idea of another kiss was enough to send him into a dizzy spell, his brilliant mind stuttering to a stop at the thought. Pitiful, really. It was just so addictive, Neil's smiles and gazes and subtle flirtations.  Nothing like anything Mycroft was finding anywhere else, and certainly more than he'd ever expected from Neil Gibson, of all people. An idol, in a way. An ideal to aspire to.

He was happy to say that his blush had mostly faded by the time Neil came back with the drinks, though the other man's grin was nearly enough to start it up again. _Keep it together, Mycroft._ He thanked Neil as the other man handed him a drink and sat back down with him, Mycroft taking an experimental sip of his lager. It really was quite lovely, Neil had excellent taste.

"If you really want the story of how I ended up here, I can tell you, but I assure you, it's not particularly interesting," he said, exuding modesty that was only a touch false. Both he and his brother were afflicted with a simple sense of 'I am brilliant. This is how I've always been.' It was a simple acceptance of their own abilities, not a pride or arrogance, though both of them had more than a touch of that most of the time. "I'm more interested in you and the story you promised me earlier."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil hummed appreciatively as  Mycroft took an experimental sip.  "I'm glad you like your drink.  It's an American brew, of all things, but I'm quite fond of it.  It's called Death and Taxes.  To inevitability," he said wryly and raised his glass, clinking the rim against Mycroft's.

"Speaking of the inevitable, with a mind like yours I suppose you were fated to end up excelling beyond the rest of your peers. Though you sell yourself a bit short, Mycroft.  I imagine that what seems like an uninteresting tale to you might be fascinating to others.  But it's ok if you want me to go first.  Far be it from me to deny your curiosity." _Hmm. How to spin what happened so that it isn't damning, but retains enough truth that my little genius accepts it?_

"At the beginning of last semester, ended up meeting Alex, the ex that you mentioned when we first met earlier today.  I had seen him around before, but we had never interacted.  The first time we spoke was when he ended up sitting next to me in psychology."  Neil gave a wistful sigh and traced the wet ring left behind by his pint glass with his index finger.  Alexander had ended up being much more trouble than he was worth; largely a waste of time and an annoying drain on Neil's fickle attentions.  He let the lament of lost time seep through just a bit, softening his facial features to make sure Mycroft read it as regret about Alex himself.

"He seemed nice enough.  Before our first big test for class he asked me back to his dorm to study.  I fancied him a bit but had no idea he felt the same until we ended up alone together."  True enough.  He did fancy Neil, at least physically.  And while he expected that his affections would be well received based on how the other student didn't mind his fleeting touches and subtle flirtations.  "I barely passed that damn exam."

"After that everything went back to "normal" between us, except we would occasionally hook up.  Alex didn't ask me for exclusivity... Didn't indicate that he wanted or needed it in any way.  I mentioned that I was only interested in being casual, mostly because of time constraints, and he didn't ever ask for things to change."  Another artful lie.  Neil had made it very obvious that first night together that he wasn't planning on settling down just to be with his seatmate.  Was it his fault that Alex didn't have enough self esteem to turn down his attentions even though the other man desperately craved exclusivity?  It was painfully obvious in every glance, every touch, every other guy he flirted with while staring at Neil from across the room to try and induce jealousy.  But he never asked for it, not once, because Neil had told him that the minute he did there'd be no more "them" to speak of.

"After about two months or so we went to a party.  We had a bit of a fight before we left; though I honestly can't remember what about.  It seemed so trivial after everything else that happened that evening that I just sort of forgot the content.  Anyway, he was hell bent on making me angry.  His friend suggested that he try to make me jealous in an effort to get me to apologize.  He proceeded to dance with just about every guy there who was interested in him and a few who weren't."  Neil gave a bitter smile.  Alexander had certainly made quite the spectacle of himself that evening.  Not that the blonde minded; his ex’s rather public humiliation for his behavior once he sobered up and tried to talk to Neil about what happened was quite funny.  But in the moment, watching the other man grind himself up against anything male and stationary... well, it was just a touch distasteful.

"I think the final straw was when I went to refresh my drink.  I overheard him talking to one of his... dance partners... The man was inquiring if we were an item, and Alexander proceeded to tell him that I wasn't much more than a good time.  That I was fun to have around for expensive dates, and not worth any type of serious consideration as a boyfriend."  Again, a lovely half truth.  Alexander had been practically sobbing to the other, rather poleaxed looking man; hysterically going over every positive and negative in their relationship, practically begging the other man to agree with his half-sincere assertions that he was 'too good' to be treated like that by Neil.

"I... I'm not proud of myself but it did make me quite angry.  I've been dealing with that same kind of shit from people my whole life.  I was born in Connecticut, but was raised largely around DC.  My dad's a Senator, and he liked having his family around to promote his whole 'family values' rhetoric.  Knowing my surname and with your big brain I'm sure you can figure out who he is.  Anyway.  He's been in politics my whole life, which means that my whole life has been politics too.  I can't remember a time when teachers or other students weren't vying to get close to me on the off chance that they'd get in close with my dad.  In a government city, there's an awful lot of people maneuvering to get whatever advantage they can.

“It's part of the reason I moved here, to get away from it all.  I thought that maybe if I went to a country where my father's clout wouldn't be worth nearly as much I could perhaps make some genuine connections."  He let his voice dip in regret and sadness, neither emotion particularly sincere.  Though the words were true, his reactions were not.  He'd enjoyed playing with his schoolmates, concocting all sorts of schemes and plans to make them vie against each other for his favor.  By middle school he was doing the same with the teachers and administrators.  By high school, he was playing the same kind of power games with lobbyists and political consultants twice his age.

"It turns out that, well, people are just generally insincere and shallow wherever you go.  There are certainly less people here trying to maneuver me politically, but my family's position isn't exactly unknown.  You have no idea how many people have tried to 'hook' me, thinking that a life of luxury would follow if we were to wed.   _Ha_.  Like they know anything about the amount of work being involved with a political family."

"Still.  Enough about that.  Alex's words cut me pretty deeply.  I found a secluded corner to pull myself together and sober up before I walked home, but one of our mutual friends came over to check on me."   _One of my hangers-on came over to take advantage of the rift between us would be more accurate._  "He was kind, I was drunk and distraught, and Alex and I weren't exclusive.  One thing led to another and... well... you deduced the outcome.  I don't feel badly about it though.  It was better for me to find out what he really thought before we got serious, I suppose."  

"And the best, or depending on how you look at it worst, part is that the brunette I was talking to earlier, the one you called his best friend, the one who encouraged him to try the whole ridiculous flirting bit in the first place?  That is actually his older step-sister."  Neil laughed, and allowed some actual good humor to shine through.  It was terribly funny, especially because he had another mutual friend, at his behest, suggest to Alex's sister that if he came to her for relationship advice she should suggest trying his hand at the jealousy route.  Knowing about her crush on Neil, he counted on her to jump at the opportunity to sow discord and pass along the obviously bad idea to her brother.  People were just too easy to tie in knots.

"She and I remain friends, though now that you've let me know about her little crush I think it's perhaps time I called that off.  I have to wonder how pure her intentions were in suggesting that Alex try to make me jealous to regain my attention.  And even if she was sincere in her advice, I don't want her getting any ideas.  I wouldn't do that to Alex (mostly because his sister is a righteous pain, he added mentally).  And even if I would, I have someone else on my mind."  He let his voice drop a bit lower on the last sentence, raising his green eyes to meet Mycroft's smoky blue gaze.

"So, that's the whole salacious story, start to finish.  So, what do you think," he asked cautiously, hoping the younger man would read it as insecurity about Mycroft's opinion of him after the tale.  "How much of that story had you actually observed before I told you?  And how could you possibly have told as much as you did just from looking at me?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Uni-only chapter in which Mycroft and Neil get to know each other a bit better, and a wager is made.
> 
> Warnings: Alcohol consumption, angst, general predatory behavior, and stalker-ish creepiness.

There were touches, just slight, brief, fleeting touches of dishonesty at the edge of Neil's story. It was unavoidable, really; in Mycroft's experience, no one really ever told a completely true story. They embellished, they lied, they forgot details; whatever it was, they never seemed to tell an entirely true story. Perhaps that was why Sherlock became so impatient when listening to people talk, because he wanted cold hard facts while everyone wanted to tell their side of the story and became bogged down in the unimportant parts. Mycroft found it irritating on occasion, but for the most part he'd managed to suppress the instinct to tell people to shut up and get on with it.

So maybe that was why he didn't mind the touches of dishonesty in Neil's story, since it was something he was used to and nothing seemed to ring entirely untrue. Judging from where his narrative seemed slightly off, Neil was just lying a little bit to make himself sound like less of a villain, but judging from how the other man, this 'Alex', had acted, neither of them were particularly faultless in this case.

_"And even if I would, I have someone else on my mind."_

The suggestion in his voice wasn't lost on Mycroft and he had to fight down the blush that was threatening to take over his features. He took another sip of his drink as Neil asked for his opinion, seeming genuinely concerned about what Mycroft thought and what he had already known from their earlier conversation. More importantly, how he had known it. It wasn't difficult at all for him to recreate the scene earlier that had given him the necessary information, and he organized his thoughts for a minute before speaking.

"In regards to what I deduced before you told me the full story, it was mostly limited to what I already told you. I knew something of the relationship, and the relationship between you and your brunette acquaintance. As to how I knew it..." He took a deep breath, ready to pour out the evidence that had led him to his conclusion, though why Neil wanted to know was beyond him. Usually people didn't want to be dissected like this. "Your relationship to your friend was the easiest thing to deduce, that was almost entirely based off body language. The way she held herself while she talked to you indicated the romantic interest she had in you, though she was still reserved, guarded. If she liked you what reason would she have being guarded with you? Something you'd done then, something that displeased her or **should** have displeased her. Your body language, then. Easy, open, no guilt evident in your behavior. Whatever had happened, you didn't hold any guilt for."

"So what would have caused a distrust from one friend, but not the other? Disapproval. She disapproved of something you'd done, then, something a close acquaintance would know about. Most likely it was something in your personal life, which leaves either a romantic engagement or a friendship. Judging from her reluctance to date you even though she obviously liked you, romantic engagement was more likely. Something you'd done in a romantic engagement to earn reluctance on her part--most obvious answer is cheating, but judging from the depth of her interest and the rest of her observable character, she wouldn't have cared unless she was personally involved in it. So you cheated on someone close to her, most likely a best friend. The fact that it was an open relationship was evident in your lack of guilt about the situation, while the fact that you date casually was obvious because of your own character. That part, I must admit, was based more on past observation, but the rest I observed shortly before I told you."

He stopped again, the expression on Neil's face giving him significant pause. There wasn't anything particularly special about his line of reasoning, it was all perfectly logical, just a line of thought carried out to its eventual conclusion. True, maybe the speed at which he had made the observations and strung them together on the spot was perhaps slightly impressive, but that was just how his mind worked. It took facts and strung them into logical trains of thought, the same way Sherlock's did. It was something he'd gotten used to over the years, something that usually startled other people though he didn't know why. He only hoped he hadn't startled Neil.

"I'm sorry, that must seem rather...overwhelming," he said, tone apologetic. "Are you alright with everything I said?"

~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil sat in stunned silence, mind momentarily reeling at the level of detail his 'date' was able to procure from what appeared to be simple observations.  Good lord.  It was like winning the lottery.  Twice.  On Christmas.  What he wouldn't give to just snatch up the younger man and bodily haul him back to DC for a few dinner parties.  The results would be comically priceless, if not monetarily beneficial.  The auburn haired young man was practically a walking index of everybody's dirty laundry, from mere embarrassing secrets to blackmail-worthy indiscretions.

Lost for a moment as he was in his own thoughts, he nearly missed the opportunity to put the insecure man across from him at ease.  When Neil gazed back into those wary blue eyes, he read nothing but worry.  Oh, the poor thing was concerned he had driven Neil away with his forwardness.  Well, there were certainly things that he wanted to discourage Mycroft from doing, like looking too deeply into Neil's motivations, for start.  But this amazing ability of his to string together almost unnoticeable details and produce an accurate read of strangers?  Hardly.  That was the most useful thing about him.  Well, that and his shy, awkward nature.  And deep hunger for approval.  Really.  It was like getting all sevens on a slot machine.  The perfect sequence of traits to yield the maximum winnings.  

"Alright with it?  Mycroft!  That was fantastic!"  A flash of white teeth and an appreciative flicker of green eyes over the younger man's fine boned face drove his appreciation home.  "All that, garnered just from witnessing a brief, casual conversation between the two of us. Since you don't seem so inclined to tell me how you got to be so brilliant, or what brought you to Uni years ahead of schedule, perhaps you can indulge me and tell me what you think of the bartender?"  The blonde gave his seatmate one of his most charming smiles.  The 'panty dropper', as some of his old high school friends used to call it.

"You could take the piss out of me, as they say.  I don't know the first thing about him.  But somehow, I think that's not your style.  I'm not as good as you at observing things, but I can tell you appreciate the truth, don't you?"  Without giving Mycroft a moment to answer, he leaned forward across the table, bringing himself as close into the younger man's space as he could.  He gave him a heavy lidded gaze, and a softer, more seductive smile.  "Forget the barkeep.  Let's play a little game instead.  You pick a patron and observe.  Tell me what you see.  Or lie.  Either way.  If I can read you well enough to discern whether or not you're telling me the truth, I get the point.  If you manage to deceive me, or I read you wrong, you get the point.  Person with the most points at the end of the night, whenever we decide that to be," he let his voice become low and silky.  "Well.  We'll decide on forfeits later, shall we?"

~~~~~~~~~~~

He'd already mentally agreed to the game before Neil had finished speaking. The thought briefly crossed Mycroft's mind that maybe he shouldn't show off like this, display the full power of his observational skills, but it was quickly buried under the flood of warmth rising in him at Neil's compliments. If playing this game would cause Neil to smile at him and use that voice -- good God, that voice -- that made him go weak at the knees, then he would very gladly go along with the older man, sure he could reel himself back in if things got out of hand. Not that he thought they would.

"Alright," he agreed, smiling at Neil before looking around the bar for a minute, trying to pick an easy person to start off with. His eyes lit up when he found one and he leaned closer to Neil, pointing out the people in question. "The two women at the end of the bar, the brunette and the redhead. The brunette recently got engaged, very recently in fact, I would say only a few days ago. Her friend is a friend from Uni but they've known each other awhile, are rather close, and the redhead is upset about the marriage." True, true, all true, and now time to test Neil's own observational skills. "She thinks her friend could do better than the man she's marrying, but she won't say anything because she doesn't want a fight and they've fought about it in the past. She won't consider breaking her silence during the course of the engagement or marriage, but it will build up as a resentment," he lied smoothly. A little kernel of truth then, for the very end. It would indeed be a source of resentment, and he was hoping that truth at the end of the lie would help to fool Neil. Though at this point, he wasn't sure if he actually wanted Neil to win or not.

He turned back to Neil, a smile playing on his lips; this was actually going to be a lot of fun, he could tell. He didn't usually get a chance to exercise his skills, and usually had even less of a chance to impress Neil, of all people. This was both, plus a drink thrown into the mix, and he could hardly believe that this was happening. His luck was never this good. He felt like he was winning the lottery. "So, what do you think?" he asked, genuinely curious to see if Neil could pick up on his deception. "How honest was I?"

~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil watched in appreciation as Mycroft's stormy blue eyes scanned over the crowd of the pub and settled on two women at the end of the bar.  When the younger man leaned in close to him and began laying out his observations, Neil allowed an appreciative flicker of his green eyes over Mycroft's aristocratic face.  It wouldn't have mattered if the man looked like a toad; with this much vulnerability (for fun) and usefulness (for business) Neil would have shagged him silly just to seal the deal and keep him close.  The idea was sweetened, however, by those brilliant cobalt eyes and elegant features.  His own green eyes cast a glance at Mycroft's chosen targets, a brunette and a redhead in their mid-thirties he guessed, before turning back to watch Mycroft as he picked the pair apart and laid their story bare.  As Mycroft ran down his initial assessment of the pair, Neil found himself nodding in agreement.

When Mycroft finished speaking he turned his gaze back to Neil, eyes bright with an unspoken request for approval and just the smallest touch of pride.  The blonde gave him a smile in return, heavy with appreciation, before turning his gaze to the women in question.  They were solidly middle class, the brunette with a rather impressive looking engagement ring on her left hand.  With Mycroft's observations, the picture he had of the story unfolding between the two women became crystal clear.  Undoubtedly Mycroft was spot on in his observation about the women being Uni friends; they carried themselves with an ease that spoke of long-term familiarity.  But the redhead was upset, that much was obvious by the constant shifting in her position and her uncomfortable fidgeting with her hair and jewelry.

Oh yes, she was upset.  But as the redhead played with the pendant resting at the top of her bosom, it was obvious the reason for her agitation was not for the reasons Mycroft had indicated.  Very clever, actually, hiding the lie underneath layers of truth.

"Well done!  I agree with everything, except the reason the redhead is unhappy with the brunette.  Undoubtedly she thinks that her friend could do better, that much is true, if by better you mean _her_."  Neil allowed his voice to drop slightly, deepening with innuendo.  "An unrequited crush, probably has been harboring it for years.  And though they've fought about the redhead's approval of the brunette's choice of mate, the redhead had to come up with a more... acceptable... reason to approve of her friend's choice.  So "not good enough" it became.  And you're right, she won't say anything to her friend about it, especially not now that the other woman is engaged.  But the resentment will continue to build up as she watches her friend pursue a relationship with someone she thinks won't treat her as well as she would."  Green eyes flickered back to Mycroft, watching the younger man's reactions to his assessment.  Neil allowed himself a slightly-more-than-friendly smile at the other man before he continued.

"See, the redhead simply wants to be seen, appreciated by the other woman.  She's tired of being overlooked and ignored.  It's sad, really.  It seems like she has a lot to offer.  She's classy and obviously smart.  I don't know if the brunette is blind, or simply isn't gay, or what.  But she's missing out on an amazing opportunity.  One should never, ever pass up the opportunity to become entangled with a fiercely intelligent redhead.  Then again, that might be my own personal preference," he smoothly offered, allowing Mycroft to pick out the suggestion for himself.

"Now unless you can offer me compelling evidence otherwise, I think this point belongs to me, dear."  Neil smiled hungrily, casting green eyes back over the crowd.  "So, who's next?"

~~~~~~~~~~~

Losing a point didn't matter to Mycroft as Neil smiled at him and made a comment aimed specifically towards him about intelligent redheads. He was proud of the fact that he didn't even flush at this, though he did take a sip of his drink to avoid speaking. It was strange, most people usually weren't as observant as Neil seemed to be. He hadn't realized that Neil was so familiar with human behavior, and it made him wonder what, exactly, Neil had observed about him.

He let his eyes drift over the older man as Neil looked out over the crowd again, looking for another victim. He hadn't really taken the time to truly observe Neil earlier, just the conversation he'd already pulled apart earlier, so he took it now, letting his eyes drift for a moment in silence though he pretended to be weighing the options available to them in the pub.

He didn't like what he found in Neil at all. The edges of dishonesty that he'd sensed earlier prickled distinctively in the back of his mind as he noted details he'd missed before. The body language, first of all. Neil didn't seem to think it was a shame that the two women weren't together, no, he was enjoying the redhead's pain. His body had an eager lean to it, though when he turned to Mycroft that eagerness turned into something else, slipping into the charm he'd shown thus far. Mycroft couldn't get over the feeling that there was something else there, though, a darkness at the edge of the charisma, a type of hunger in his eyes. It unsettled him, and he quickly turned his attention back to the game so his behavior wouldn't seem off.

"Since you won that point, you should pick the next one," he said, allowing himself to smile at Neil, using whatever charm he possessed. "It will make it more challenging for me, and more fun for you since I can give you more information about someone of your choosing instead of choosing someone at random. What do you think?"

~~~~~~~~~~~

As Mycroft suggested that Neil pick their next target, he detected some hesitancy in the younger man's voice.  Certainly the younger man was trying to be charming, but that in and of itself gave him away.  Of all the things Mycroft had done yet this evening, deliberately trying to charm Neil hadn't been something he'd tried doing.  So, the younger student was feeling defensive.  Or maybe he was trying to put Neil off something?  It was harder to tell with Mycroft than it was with most people, but regardless the reasons the signs were obvious.  Something made his 'date' uncomfortable around Neil.

Perhaps he'd overplayed his hand with the women at the bar.  Damn.  Well, Neil knew himself well enough to realize it wasn't out of character to take an opportunity to show off, but he had forgotten that the auburn haired man across from him would be less likely to be impressed than the other people he usually played with.  And the topic might be a bit sore, what with Neil's history of infidelity and Mycroft's until recently unrequited crush.  Time to remedy things, and that could be facilitated by moving on to a happier target.  One that suggested an interest in the long term.  Bright emerald eyes scanned the crowd before settling on a white haired couple seated at one of the booths on the other side at the back of the pub.

"There," he indicated, nodding at the pair.  "The older couple.  They're awfully happy about something, don't you think?"  He gave Mycroft another charming grin.  "And they've been together for quite some time, I can tell by the way he looks at her.  Care to try your skills on them?  Tell me what you see when you look at them, Mycroft.  And I'll tell you if you're telling the truth."

~~~~~~~~~~~

When Neil pointed out the older couple at the back of the bar, Mycroft had to wonder if he'd made the choice on purpose. A happy couple, together a long time...was he trying to reassure Mycroft of his interest? Whatever it was, he felt a little hotter under the collar of his shirt, a little more excited as well as nervous, and he focused his attention on the couple instead of thinking.

"Yes, you're right, they've been together quite a while," he said after a minute of consideration, during which he dragged his thumb along his bottom lip in a soothing manner to facilitate his thought process. Certainly not because he hoped it would draw Neil's attention to his lips. Definitely not. "They have both children and grandchildren: a grandchild of about...six years of age visited them today, and played with finger paints while he was there. The woman recently sprained her ankle, I'd say a day or two ago, and the man was gardening today, working with tomatoes especially."

None of it was a lie, all of it absolutely true, but he'd made sure he layered it with so much detail that it seemed he must be lying. Any normal person would assume there was no way for him to tell the age of the child or what they played with or what the man was gardening just by observing for a few minutes, but he had details to back them all up in case Neil required proof. He turned back to Neil now with a friendly, competitive smile.

"So, was I lying or telling the truth? I'd rather like to make up for the lost point on this one, so do take your time to think," he said, and took another sip of his beer.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil watched as Mycroft visibly flushed at his choice of marks, and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as the younger man turned his attention towards them.  The level of subtlety they were playing at was actually exciting and new.  Most people were so simple.  Boring.  Uncomplicated.  Getting them to do something, or hand something over was very nearly akin to beating them over the head with the idea until they thought they had produced it themselves.  Mycroft, for all his delightful flaws and quirks, was actually somewhat of a challenge and a pleasure.  But it was also dangerous.  If he gave much about his true intentions away, the younger man would undoubtedly notice.  It was a fine, complicated dance, and Neil found himself genuinely entertained for the first time in what felt like ages.  Not to mention the flush of his own he felt when the younger man dragged one aristocratic finger across the plushness of his lower lip.  A calculated flirtatious gesture to be sure, but it didn't mean Neil couldn't allow himself to enjoy the suggestiveness of it all the same.  Equally enjoyable was the fact that the mood had been set enough that Mycroft felt comfortable reciprocating, turning the flirtatious give into a 'give and take'.

As Mycroft rattled off his observations about the couple, Neil studied him carefully.  The brief flush was gone, replaced by that intense look of concentration that the younger man produced when observing.  He could very nearly see those stormy blue eyes cataloging every minute detail about the pair, filing it away in that amazing brain of his to be pulled back out seconds later and rearranged into a meaningful picture.  The level of detail that the auburn haired man produced was astounding, and Neil very nearly balked at the idea that someone could read **that** much into someone else’s life by mere appearances alone.

Fortunately Mycroft's eyes were still fixed on the couple when Neil's grin of realization spread over his face.  A solid ploy, using the too much truth in hopes it appeared to be a lie.  In fact, if it weren't for the challenging if friendly look on his partner's fine boned face, Neil would have had a hard time convincing himself that the level of minutia the younger man observed was even possible.  Mycroft seemed to be trying a new tactic; getting Neil to read him for the truth instead of reading the targets.  An amazingly subtle flirtation tactic if Neil had ever seen one.

_Oh, you.  You clever, clever thing.  Once I actually get my hands on you I'm never letting you go, Mycroft Holmes.  Not. **Ever**._

He turned his eyes to the couple across the bar, considering them carefully before picking out the best words to use on building Mycroft up a bit.  After all, it wouldn't do to have the young man know that he could win just about every round if he chose.  Better for the younger student to feel special.  And for him to remain in the dark about Neil's own observational skills.

"Well, I call your lie on this one as well!  The finger-paints I get; there's got to be some lingering evidence on the clothing that I just can't pick out.  Same thing with the ankle.  I don't doubt it's true, even though I can't see it myself.  My observational skills just can't hold a candle to yours, Red," he offered with a grin.  "But the age of the child and the types of plants the man was working with is too much detail.  And that's where your lie is; where the devil himself dwells, in the details."

~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft's smile grew as Neil continued talking, falling right into the trap by believing there was just too much detail from such little evidence. This, here, was a chance for him to show off, though he was already flushing from the comment from Neil that his observational skills could never match up to Mycroft's. It wasn't necessarily true, Neil had already proven himself to be quite proficient at observing as well, but Mycroft had an opportunity to impress him all the same, here.

"No, I didn't lie at all," he said with an easy, pleased smile. "All of those details are correct. If you look at the woman's dress, there are smudges on her upper back from the finger paints--they mostly blend into her dress, but they're faintly there. Judging from the height of the smudges and their position on her back, you can tell how far down she had to bend to hug the child goodbye, and therefore what height the child is. Judging based off that height, the child is probably an average child of six years old, though he or she could be older or younger and under or over developed."

"As for what the man was gardening, that's very simple. If you look closely at his hands, particularly around his nails, you'll notice there's a particular shade of green stain on them. Prolonged exposure to tomato plants can quite literally stain your hands green, but that doesn't necessarily indicate that he worked with them today. When coupled with the few seeds, likely from the a squirt of juice when he stepped on one, on the cuff of his trousers, I deduced he worked with them today."

He smiled broadly at Neil, completely pleased that he'd managed to trick him once. "So I believe that's a point for me. I don't think you ever clarified, what exactly will the prize be for the person with the most points at the end of the night?" he asked. There was an entire list of things Neil could ask him for that he would readily agree to give him, but showing too much eagerness at this point would damage the rapport they were starting. So he stayed calm, collected as he asked, though there was a hint of suggestion in his smile.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Brilliant.  Just brilliant.  I admit, you got me on that one.  I would never have guessed that you could have picked out such nearly-invisible cues as to what their lives are like."  Neil's appreciative smile was actually genuine.  Watching Mycroft Holmes was quite the treat.  “Specific shade of green from tomato plants? How do you even have room in your head for all those minute details?"

“As far as points goes; that makes us even.  Shall we play until best out of three then?  That means we'll be playing for game point, Mycroft.  Might want to start thinking about forfeits.  If you've got me on this next one you'll come out the victor."  

His voice occupied its lowest register, full of promise and suggestion.  Emerald eyes heavily lidded as he gazed at his seatmate through golden lashes.  "I've picked mine, though I'd be lying if I said I hadn't had it in mind since we started playing.  A nightcap, back at my place.  I've got an off campus apartment, and a really excellent bottle of scotch that I've been dying to share with someone who can appreciate it."

"And it's my pick, so..."  He glanced around the room again, trying to find the perfect victim to seal his victory.  Not that it mattered, even if Mycroft won he was certain the younger man would pick up on his suggestions and at least ask for something forward.  And that could always be built upon.  But it was always more fun to win and take the spoils than it was to play the gracious loser.  Finally he settled on the perfect mark.

A solitary young blonde was curled up on herself in one of the booths.  It looked like she had been waiting for someone, was still waiting for that someone if the furtive checking of her watch was any indication, who had yet to arrive.  To Neil's eye the mystery partner appeared to be a friend; she'd certainly have taken better care of her hair and makeup if it had been a boyfriend or potential suitor.  She had the forlorn air of the recently single; but from the hints of anger in her body language she'd been the one to cut things off.  Still, she was more lonely than angry; her countenance reminded Neil of Mycroft's in a lot of ways.  Completely ideal.  He nodded in the young woman's direction.

“There.  Our final challenge.  Though I have to admit if you get me again I may very well try to get you to agree to best of five instead of three."  The older blonde grinned companionably at his younger seatmate.  "I have to admit that while I'm not uncouth about it I'm not a very good loser."

~~~~~~~~~~~

And there was that damn blush again as Neil's voice returned, full of suggestion and the promise of an interesting night if he was to win. A nightcap back at Neil's place...wow. That was nearly enough to make Mycroft want to lose on purpose, just so he could enjoy the spoils of victory along with Neil. A nightcap was one thing--a good thing, usually a sign of a good date, a potential for more to happen--but the promise of going back to Neil's flat? Mycroft felt his brain stutter to a stop for a minute.

The pub was suddenly unbearably hot and he flushed heavily, prompting him to loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt. God. Right. The game. They were actually having a conversation. Neil had chosen their next target. And as much as Mycroft wanted to let Neil win so he could enjoy the prize, the competitive streak that ran through him wouldn't allow for that. "Um...right. The blonde in the corner, right?"

He forced himself to focus, letting all thoughts of Neil and any potential for the evening drop from his mind as he studied the woman Neil had picked out. "She's waiting for someone. A friend...a close friend, but one that's recently become unreliable, probably because of a new romantic engagement. She's lonely...relying on this friend for a lot, relying on her to fill a void that she can't. It's been about a week since she last dated, and the relationship ended badly." His frown was deepening with each deduction he made, and he was starting to lose his thread of thought. This woman was reminding him of himself, and his facts about her were getting lost in his own personal similarities. He shook his head slightly, and tried again.

"She's young, just out of Uni, looking for a job. Staying with her mother until she can afford a place of her own. The transition has caused her enough stress to effectively ruin her previous romantic relationship and cause her to rely on her friend to fill the void. Her hair dryer is broken, and she's suffering from a mild bout of depression." True, true, true, except for the cause of the end of her relationship. Her relationship had not been ended due to her stress, though she had started to rely on her friend more and more. It was enough for Neil to look for, though, and the added, eccentric detail about the hair dryer, though it was true, would hopefully throw Neil off.

He turned to look at him now, smile fainter, a bit more subdued now that he'd examined the blonde who reminded him somewhat of himself. Lonely. Slightly desperate. Looking for close friends to fill the void. Only in Mycroft's case, he didn't have anyone to fill that void. "So, what do you think? Will I have to start trying to convince you for another chance, or is it back to your place?" God, he couldn't even say that without blushing at the suggestion.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft flushed a brilliant shade of scarlet at Neil's suggestion; crimson highlighting his cheekbones and the very tip of his nose.  The older blonde almost found it adorable, but really all it did was serve to excite him.  

_My, my.  First Alex, now Mycroft.  I'm developing a kink for the inexperienced ones, aren't I?  There's something so... indelible about it.  Knowing that no matter how things turn out they're giving you something that they can never, ever take back._

He gave his seatmate a flirtatious grin, letting the younger man pick up on the undercurrent of flirtation he was feeling.  Certainly there was no completely hiding it, not from Mycroft, but Neil hoped he at least managed to mask some of the ferociousness with friendliness.  That was until Mycroft loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.  The glimpse of pale, lightly freckled neck was enough to make Neil's mouth water.  He was certain that his pupils must be the size of saucers.

Fortunately, Mycroft was too busy reading his new (and final, the older man decided) target.  It was simply delightful to watch the younger man become more and more disheartened as he made his deductions about the lonely woman.  His thin lips turned downward in a slight frown, and the sight of it deepening the general air of melancholy that Mycroft seemed to carry about him made something sharp and altogether delightful pulse through Nei’s abdomen.

_There.  Made it worse, now time to step in and make it better._

"Oh Mycroft," he said softly.  "I'm sorry.  Something about her made you upset."  Neil cast his emerald eyes over to the young woman in question, watching as she toyed with her silent mobile once again.  "Ah.  The isolation."  He put on the very best concerned caring smile, the one that his father had taught him when they spent their summers doing "necessary humanitarian work".  It was picture perfect.  Neil had the news clippings at home to prove it.

"Mycroft..."  He let his voice trail off, and brought his eyes to level with the stormy blue of his seatmate's.  Reaching across the table, he took one of the younger man's fine-boned hands in his own, running the pad of his thumb along the soft skin along the slight dip in the middle.  "I know it's hard on you.  And I'm sorry for that.  And I don't want to sound too forward, as we've only just properly met each other but... " he took a deep breath and did his very best to blush.

"Well, I was hoping we could work on the loneliness bit together.  I've had a wonderful time tonight.  And no matter how the bet ends, I do want to spend more time with you again.  Soon, if possible.  Preferably immediately."  He smiled; warm, open and sincere.  It was the same smile that had landed him a picture in Time Magazine at fifteen, surrounded by a filthy bunch of starving children in some god forsaken, backwater country in Asia.  Cambodia perhaps?  It didn't matter.  All he remembered was that the smile was easily discarded as he made his way back to the SUV to lounge in the back and have some snacks.  Alone.  Appearances were everything, but at least occasionally his father didn't require him to deprive himself of all enjoyment just for the sake of looking good in his next electoral campaign.

"Not to keep raining on your parade, but I think I've detected your lie.  I'm not going to question the hair dryer.  Not after the tomato incident.  And the rest of it seems to fit her behavior.  But I don't think it was the stress of moving in with her mother that caused her to break it off.  No, look at the turn of her shoulders, the way her ankles are crossed and feet are pointed away from her phone even as she checks her messages.

“She had a boyfriend.  Or a girlfriend.  I can't tell.  Either way, they did something wrong and she left them.  She'd rather be by herself than compromise her sense of self-worth. And you know what?"  He squeezed Mycroft's hand reassuringly.  "Speaking from personal experience, she's better off that way.  She'll be able to really invest when she meets the right person instead of just getting beaten down by trying to put up with someone that's no good for her.  I may have some experience in the area," he offered by way of explanation.  

"No.  She's strong for going against the grain, not being dependent on someone else for her sense of self.  And because of that she'll find someone.  Not just to be boyfriend.  But a partner."

~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft tried to contain his surprise when Neil took his hand, the older man's touch soft and gentle, meant to be reassuring. It was actually, though also astounding as the older man continued, speaking reassurances and saying things Mycroft could hardly believe were coming out of Neil Gibson's mouth and directed at him.

_"Well, I was hoping we could work on the loneliness bit together.  I've had a wonderful time tonight.  And no matter how the bet ends, I do want to spend more time with you again.  Soon, if possible.  Preferably immediately."_

That alone was...well. Amazing. Incredible. Fantastic. Neil actually wanted to see him again, didn't want to stop seeing him now, in fact, and that in itself was fantastic. And as the older man continued, talking about the woman they'd been studying wanting someone who was a partner as well as a boyfriend, Mycroft felt a flutter of something dangerous and kind of wonderful in his chest. He could hardly believe his luck. If he hadn't already offended Neil by asking if he was playing a joke on him, he would have done it again, because this was really too good to be true and he was back to wondering when the rug was going to be pulled out from under him.

"You're right," he said, and offered the other man a small smile. "About everything you said, really, but especially where you caught my lie. Which means another point for you and means you win the game, so it seems that it's back to your place then." He paused, mulling his words over for a minute as he tried to figure out the right wording to use. "And I really can't say I'm upset about losing because I would be lying if I said I wasn't hoping to spend some more time with you as well. I've really had a wonderful night, the best I've had in...well, a long while." He blushed slightly at this, embarrassed at the admittance.

"It's been a lovely night and I want it to end about as much as you do, so...back to yours?" He smiled. "I heard a rumor about some scotch, and maybe I can tell you the story of how I ended up here if it still interests you."

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh, I do so love to win, but I don't think I've ever captured quite such a lovely prize before."  He rummaged in his jacket pocket for a moment, producing a wallet and tossing a few notes on the table before standing.  A single stride brought him to Mycroft's side of the booth.  He extended a tanned hand to the younger man, clasping his fingers around Mycroft's firmly as he helped him rise.  Once the auburn haired man was on his feet, Neil pulled him in just a hair closer, so their chests were almost touching, as he gave the slightly shorter man a smoldering look full of promise.

"And if you think your night has been good so far, well..." The blonde flashed a smile, all charisma and suggestion.  "We haven't made it back to my place yet, and our date is far from over.  You might want to reserve judgement until the end, dear."  As Mycroft blushed at the suggestive overtones, the older blonde let out a lighthearted laugh.

"Well, the scotch is **very** good," he offered by way of explanation for his previous comments, still grinning mischievously.  "C'mon now.  I'd love to hear the story of what brought you all the way here.  I want to know a great deal of things about you, Mycroft Holmes.  We'll start with your past.  Next up, your taste in scotch.  After that, well... we'll see."  And with that, he stepped back from the younger man, breaking all contact except the hand hold, tugging slightly to get the rather stunned Mycroft to follow him to the front of the pub.  As they passed the space where the band was playing, an idea struck him.

"Weren't we going to dance, at one point?" He queried, turning back around to face his younger companion.  "I really do think you'd move beautifully," he whispered, just loudly enough for Mycroft to hear but for the other pub patrons to remain oblivious.  "And don't worry, you're quite clever.  You'll catch on like a natural, I promise.  I'll take the lead.  Follow me."  And with that he pulled the be-suited student towards him, wrapping one arm firmly around Mycroft's waist as he slid the other up the younger man's back and began to sway slightly, starting them off easily so as not to panic his partner.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft's head was already spinning even before Neil brought him out onto the dance floor, the compliments and suggestiveness practically oozing out of him. It was enough to make him flush and feel slightly lightheaded at thoughts of where the evening could go and where it had been so far. To think that this had all started when Neil bumped into him in the hallway and now he was going back to Neil's place for a scotch and Neil wanted to hear his life story and Neil was dancing with him...wait, they were dancing?

Ah, yes, Neil had basically started dancing with him without his permission and now they were swaying back and forth to smooth jazz, Neil's arms wrapped around him, and Mycroft was blushing furiously without having a say in the matter and trying to follow along, his hands on Neil's shoulders because he wasn't sure where to put them. Tension was evident in his entire frame, his spine taught and his shoulders stiff, but as they continued to softly sway, his body relaxed against Neil's, the space between them minimizing.

"This is...well, this is nice," he said with a slight laugh. "I never really saw the appeal of dancing, but then again this is a far cry from the dancing most of our peers do, I'm certain. It's quite lovely, though. I never knew you enjoyed dancing, have you ever taken any classes or anything?"

~~~~~~~~~~~

"See, you know exactly where to put your hands," Neil murmured, pulling his partner in just a touch closer.  "Told you that you'd be a natural."  The older blonde let his fingers splay against the small of Mycroft's back, thumb seeking out and tracing over the ridge of the younger man's spine.  "As for your question, yes.  I've taken more dance lessons than I care to count; ballroom mostly.  Though I did spend a summer learning swing.  It's one of those things that's just expected, at least in my family.  Fortunately I find it to be quite enjoyable, given the right partner."  Neil leaned in and whispered the last few words into the younger man's ear, delighting in the reemergence of the scarlet flush that crept across his skin.

"Did you know that you are absolutely charming when you blush, Mr. Holmes?" As they swayed together, Neil directed their movements so they drifted through the more crowded middle of the floor, navigating cautiously through the other couples gathered there.  The slight crush of the crowd forced his partner even closer to him, and the younger man very nearly shivered as the last of the remaining space between them evaporated.  Neil let his fingers play over the soft gray fabric of Mycroft's suit, gently moving his hand in soft circles between the other man's shoulder blades.  The way his eyelashes fluttered against his high, pale cheek when Neil pressed their hips together was nearly enough to draw a feral growl out of the older man.  It was certainly going to be hard getting through the 'courtship' phase of this dance if Mycroft insisted on being so... delicious.  All the blonde wanted to do was tear away at the younger man's ego; to leave him raw and exposed and oh-so-open to suggestion as he desperately tried to fill the voids that Neil ached to create in him.  

As they reached the opposite edge of the dance floor the predator in Neil couldn't help but hold Mycroft firmly against him, hips flush against each other as he leaned in and stole a ravenous kiss from the startled younger man.   Neil swept his tongue across the soft expanse of Mycroft's lower lip, eliciting a soft gasp.  Taking full advantage of the temporary parting of the other man's lips Neil drove forward, sweeping his tongue into Mycroft's mouth before he could react.  Slowly, hungrily he worked himself in the younger man's mouth before breaking off the embrace as suddenly as he had struck.

"Now **that** is the only way to cross a dance floor."  The blonde tapped the tip of his index finger to Mycroft's slightly parted lips, thoroughly enjoying somewhat dazed, wide eyed look the younger man gave him as he pulled away.  "We really will have to give it a proper go next time.  As much as I love to dance, though, I have to admit that I'm curious to hear your story.  I'm quite eager to have you make yourself a bit less of a mystery to me." _True, so true. Tell me every little thing about you Mycroft.  All the better to wind you up with my dear.  By week's end I'll have you hooked.  By the end of next month I'll have you so tangled up that you'll need me to tell you up from down.  And then, oh, what **fun** we can have._

"And there is that scotch waiting for us," he delivered smoothly, hoping any eagerness on his part that shone through would be interpreted as mere excitement for the evening's impending activities.  Judging by the look on Mycroft's face, the brilliant young man may have stopped observing all together.  His blue eyes were wide with a combination of eagerness and the barest hints of fading shock, likely from the kiss.  Useful information, that.  A bit of over-stimulation seemed to turn that keen mind right off.  Neil was pleased to discover that even geniuses could be distracted by their baser needs.  especially when those baser needs were something he was all too happy to indulge.  Another wolfish grin crossed his lips, and he  nodded to the pub door.  "Shall we?"

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was good that Neil was taking the lead in the conversation as well as the dance, because Mycroft was finding it difficult to speak, his words sticking in his throat as his cheeks continued to burn from the sweet little things that Neil kept saying to him. The space between them was disappearing as Neil led them across the dance floor, and Mycroft couldn't help but shiver at the close contact with the older man, their hips flush in a way that made him distinctly nervous. He'd been so busy watching his own feet to make sure he didn't trip that he didn't catch Neil's expression until he happened to glance up and was surprised at what he saw. Neil looked...well, hungry. Like he wanted to devour Mycroft right then and there, snap him up whole and spit his bones back out like any good wolf would. He had little time to think about it, however, because then Neil's lips were on his own and Mycroft was just trying to withstand the forceful kiss.

All rational thought ceased. There was nothing for him to think, nothing for him to observe, nothing to do but hold on for dear life under those crushing lips and that skillful tongue that had slipped into his mouth seemingly of its own accord. His mind went entirely blank, even the background noise that always lurked seeming to disappear, and he couldn't think even when Neil pulled away and tapped his lips with one tanned finger. Neil was saying words. Speaking to him. Something about a story he wanted to hear, scotch, dancing, Mycroft was having trouble making sense of it. All he knew was that this was the quietest his brain had ever been, and it was wonderful. He didn't have to deal with the constant, insufferable noise of the world and his own thoughts, enjoying instead the slight tingle in his lips and the taste of Neil's tongue that still lingered in his mouth. Neil had managed to do something no one else could, and it made Mycroft eager to see where else the evening could lead.

Oh, right, Neil was trying to get him to leave. They still had scotch waiting back at Neil's flat, and Mycroft still owed him a story. "O-oh, right, yes, we should go," Mycroft said, and found it hard to maintain eye contact with Neil. He looked away from him as he cleared his throat, flushing heavily. After a moment he turned back to the older man with a bashful smile, his blush a little more contained though his cheeks were still rosy and he was finding thinking a bit beyond him at the moment. It took a little while, but everything caught back up in full force, and he was once again drowning in the absolute noise of the world and wishing for the nice little cut off he'd experienced just a few minutes ago.

"And the sooner we leave, the sooner I can help to demystify myself a little for you, if you so wish," Mycroft said as he followed Neil towards the entrance to the pub. The cool air as they exited was a blessed relief, washing over his heated features and calming his body at the same time as it kickstarted his mind. Right, he could engage in conversation. He could even be pleasant in conversation, that was very easy for him. He was definitely not distracted by any thoughts of what the evening might hold or how far things could go with Neil in the long run. He was back to calm, rational thought. Sure.

"Though it's not a terribly interesting story, I'm afraid. More one of private schools and a father determined to see his sons with success, but I'm sure overbearing fathers are something you're quite used to." He froze by Neil's car door, realizing what he'd just said, and instantly started blushing again. "I apologize, that was incredibly rude of me, I have no right to be commenting on a relationship I know nothing about. Really, I don't know what's gotten into me, I'm entirely out of sorts tonight." Knocked off balance by a kiss was more like it, but he wasn't about to admit that to Neil. "I'm sorry, let's just go back to your flat. I'll tell you my whole sad story and we can have scotch and continue the evening."

~~~~~~~~~~~

The cool of a night air seemed to invigorate his companion some, and Neil noted the fade of the near omnipresent flush of the young man's cheeks with some disappointment.  Mycroft Holmes was certainly something when he was flustered; blush highlighting his fine cheekbones, pupils widened to conceal all but a sliver of the silvery blue irises that ringed them.  Distance and the damp chill of the air faded both; skin and eyes returning to normal as the younger man's brain finally kicked back into a functioning gear.  The auburn haired young man was attractive in a way; his quicksilver reactions keeping Neil on his toes.  He had expected Mycroft to be stunned for longer, but he managed to pull himself together.  Ah well, there went the opportunity to speed things along and simply pounce on him in the car.  Funny that soft spoken Mycroft, so blatantly hungry for companionship and approval, would be the first 'date' that Neil would actually have to take back to his flat in a fortnight.  None of the others usually lasted past the dance.  Alex, in fact, had ended up just dragging him off into the alley, where they had kissed each other senseless next to the damn dumpster before retreating to the car for relative privacy.  What an interesting, intriguing challenge the younger man was turning out to be.  A bit like a puzzle box; each piece needing to be slid meticulously into place before it could be opened and the prize claimed.  Engaging in the invisible battle of Neil's will versus Mycroft's nature was the least bored the blonde had been in months.

Then of course the brilliant idiot had to go and mention his father.  Again.  Green eyes narrowed, but fortunately Neil managed to hold his tongue.  Most of his younger companion's social ineptitudes were endearing; either because of the way they displayed themselves on his generally quiet countenance, or because of the amazing opportunities they presented to dig into the other student's psyche.  However, the particular habit that Mycroft had of mentioning anything remotely familial needed to be broken, and soon.  A few choice observations of his own crossed his mind, words that he knew he could use to cut, but the older man bit them back.  The auburn haired man's recovery was decent enough, and it reminded Neil that a bit of charm had to be laid on before he could start working his catch over in that manner.  Instead, he opted to slide in next to Mycroft, leaning in and planting a kiss just behind his ear before opening the car door for him.

"Yes, let’s continue.  I'm quite fond of our plan.  Demystifying, scotch, and especially the continuing the evening part.  I must admit I haven't had quite enough of your company yet."  Rounding the front of the car, Neil opened his own door and slid into the vehicle easily.  Turning the keys he smiled at his passenger, wolfish grin sliding easily back in place.  "Now for this story of yours.  Sad, you say?"  The blonde let his eyes unfocus slightly as he pulled out of the car park, knowing exactly how thoughtful the practiced gesture made him look.  "I don't doubt that for a minute.  It's difficult, being different.  Set apart, for whatever the reason.  Intelligence, status... it doesn't seem to matter.  People do love to box out the 'other', don't they?"  There.  It wasn't directly cruel, but the truth of his words would still tear at the younger man's ill-guarded heart, reminding him of his isolated nature.  Neil almost wanted to snap at him, tell him that being above the masses was so much better than being among them, but far be it from him to do anything that would help Mycroft ascertain his actual value.  No, the worse the little aristocrat felt about himself, the easier it would be for Neil to make him feel better.  Drawing his personal story out of the younger man would be painful for him, no doubt.  But Neil planned to soothe all those old aches and scars... just **after** he managed to get Mycroft to pry them all open again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Uni-only chapter in which Neil takes Mycroft back to his so they can start working on that forfeit he won during their wager.
> 
> Warnings: Angst, general predatory behavior, one-sided relationship with a healthy side of emotional manipulation.

_"I don't doubt that for a minute.  It's difficult, being different.  Set apart, for whatever the reason.  Intelligence, status... it doesn't seem to matter.  People do love to box out the 'other', don't they?"_

That stung a little, just enough for a grimace to briefly cross Mycroft's aristocratic features. Yes, people did love to box out the 'other', his entire life was proof of that so far. People often wondered why he spent so much time with his younger brother or older adults instead of with people his own age, and this was exactly why. His peers simply didn't understand him, never had and never would, because they couldn't. They couldn't understand him and his high intelligence and his observational skills that usually insulted them and alienated him from them. He just didn't belong with them.

But Neil understood that. Mycroft knew that Neil couldn't really understand, because the older man was quite charismatic and popular, constantly surrounded by people, but he'd said it already earlier. You didn't have to be alone to be lonely. So either Neil genuinely understood or he was a fantastic liar, and Mycroft wasn't surprised to find that he didn't really care which it was. He needed to believe that Neil was sincere, that he understood and seriously did care about Mycroft's experiences. He was definitely genuinely interested in Mycroft, that was obvious from the signs of attraction and slight arousal that he was giving off like a beacon, but perhaps it was better if Mycroft pretended he didn't see those. After all, he wasn't quite prepared for it if the evening headed in that direction.

"They really do," he said in answer to Neil's question, looking out the passenger side window as he thought for a minute. "That's mostly what my story is, really, a lot of being outside of things, separate. From a young age I displayed signs of my high intelligence, and my parents delighted in that fact, especially my father. He ensured that I had the best education money could buy, though I was several years ahead of where I should have been, hence my taking of senior classes though I'm only in my first year here. Of course, my family's wealth and my intelligence set me apart from my peers, creating a gap I could never quite bridge."

He sighed, slightly. "And my brother is headed the same way. He was born when I was seven, and his intelligence is on level with mine if not surpassing it. He's...extremely brilliant, my brother. I try to spend as much time with him as I can because I don't want him to have the same lonely childhood I had. He's set apart from his peers as well because of his brilliance, and it's a shame, really, because I think some company outside of my influence would do him good."

He smiled slightly, stopping there and looking down at his hands. He hadn't meant to get sidetracked with Sherlock, but considering the part of his life not spent studying was devoted to taking care of his baby brother, it only made sense. It was painful to see Sherlock heading down the same lonely road he'd gone down before, and he was determined to prevent it from happening to his brother. "I've tried to raise Sherlock to understand that we're different from most people, that they won't accept us for what we are. We can do things for them, great things, but they won't thank us, and we have to make peace with that. I have. I almost don't want him to. He deserves more.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil watched from the corner of his eye with no small amount of pleasure as Mycroft's face fell a bit as he contemplated what must be countless taunts and ostracisms.  Blue eyes reflected in the dark car window as the younger man stared morosely out at the city night before finally answering.  Funny, given the opportunity to talk about himself, the auburn haired young man decided to instead talk about his younger brother.  So, there were two of these genius Holmes progeny running around.  That was interesting.  And it was painfully obvious that Mycroft treasured his younger brother.  Neil filed that bit of information away for later.  Any weakness could be exploited, and whereas he wasn't sure that he'd have any use for an overly precocious, undoubtedly obnoxious primary-school student it was good to know what the contents of Mycroft's heart were made of.  The other student positively burned with the desire to help his brother avoid his own lonely fate.  Still.  It wasn't some pint sized Holmes that held Neil's interest.

"You take such good care of your brother," he offered thoughtfully.  "I imagine that no matter how difficult things become for him, at least the two of you will always have each other."  Quietly, Neil slid one hand off the wheel, placing it on Mycroft's leg just above the knee.  "I'm sure that you both will find that the older you get, the less people's petty barbs will hurt you.  And there will be at least a few people who break the mold, who can appreciate you for what you are.  Which is brilliant, in case you were wondering."

"So is that really it then?  Your whole story.  A life of endless classwork, peppered with stories of rejection and hurt? Oh Mycroft," he said, allowing his voice to soften.  Not with pity; nobody liked pity.  Not even someone like Mycroft who probably genuinely deserved it.  But with sympathy.  "Sometimes I think we have more in common than we'll ever be able to discover, no matter how much time we have together."  There. A veiled hint at a long term future.  Again, picking out exactly what Mycroft needed to hear was proving to be an interesting challenge.  The boy was affection starved to be sure, but always seemed to be thinking in terms of the long game.  While most of their peers only worked to satisfy their immediate needs, Mycroft seemed to have already matured beyond that point.

"Hearing all that, I'm more flattered than I was before that you gave me a chance.  I really will have to think of an appropriate way to thank you.  Because I am very, very thankful that you took me up on my offer.  For the pub, for the nightcap, for all of it."  As he turned into his building's car park, Neil gave Mycroft a slight, hopeful smile.  "C'mon.  Let's go upstairs.  Have that scotch.  And surely there are other parts of your life, that you could tell me about.  Hobbies, activities, your family... I assume you have some in addition to your evidently brilliant younger brother."  As he turned the car off, Neil leaned in close to his passenger, smiling kindly.  Or at least what he hoped passed for kindly.  It was beginning to get a little difficult to keep his growing hunger and keen interest hidden.  Hopefully the alcohol would do as much to slow Mycroft's mind as the kiss had, or else it was going to be very difficult to keep the younger man from noticing.  He tapped one finger to Mycroft's forehead, right between his elegantly arched eyebrows.  "There's a world of things going on in there," he tapped again to emphasize his point,  "that nobody has ever bothered to find out.  If I'm to be the first, I want to be thorough.  Tell me about you.  What you want, what you like, where you want to go.  You're fascinating.  I just can't seem to get enough."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

For just one moment, Mycroft questioned Neil's motives. It was a question that had crossed his mind at the beginning of the evening, of course, but hadn't really bothered him much since aside from the brief moment of discomfort he'd felt at Neil's obvious pleasure at the distress of the redheaded patron. But now it reared its ugly head again as he picked up on something, some type of discord in his expression, a duality. Neil was trying to hide something from him, while telling him all the right things to keep him placated. It made him instantly suspicious, even though he wanted nothing more than to accept everything Neil said at face value.

But he smiled to cover his suspicion and said, "Of course, whatever you want to know. I'm afraid none of it is particularly interesting, but if you'd like to know..." He let the sentence hang, getting out of the car before Neil did even though he knew that, of all things, was more suspicious than anything else he could do, and indeed, the blonde looked rather puzzled when he followed suit. "But I'd rather know more about you," he said quickly to cover the mistake, smiling at the older man again. "What else is behind the public persona?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Something was wrong.  Neil had overplayed his hand somehow, or given something away.  It was obvious by the way that Mycroft retreated from the car before Neil had a chance to rise and exit himself.  And instead of answering Neil's queries about himself, the younger man had retreated behind his well-fortified social barricades, instead asking Neil for information about himself.  Damn.  Fucking hell.  It was so easy to treat the easily startled, enticingly flustered younger man as just another mark, but his observational skills were out of this world.  He could pick up on Neil's subtle tells.  Combined with his cautious, guarded nature it made the younger man naturally suspicious.  Neil lost a world of ground each time he overplayed, scaring the younger man back into his shell.  The best tactic would at least be to acknowledge it, attribute it to his purely carnal desires as at least those could be understood without the younger man fleeing.  At least he hoped so.  If not this whole game of chase was going to get painfully drawn out.  And well, as much as he had thought of several uses for Mycroft other than feathering his cap and winning a bet, it would still be quite the pain if he had to endure an extended, old fashioned courtship just to win the aristocrat over.

"I'm sorry.  I'm coming on a bit strong, aren't I?"  Neil had the good graces to at least force a blush.  "I can't help it.  You're fascinating, brilliant, and it doesn't help that you're stunningly gorgeous to boot.  But I really don't want to make you uncomfortable." _No, I don't want to make you uncomfortable.  Instead, I practically want to eat you alive.  I want to tear your shyness out of you with my fucking teeth._ The blonde made sure to bury the thoughts at the back of his mind as soon as they materialized, instead taking Mycroft up on his query for more information about Neil.  If the younger man needed a bit more of a give and take to feel comfortable then that was what Neil had to do, though he certainly didn't need to give Mycroft any meaningful information.  

"Well, you know about my proclivity for dance, which I think is the single largest thing that most of our peers don't know.  Which really, I'm going to get you to Foxtrot one day, I mean it."  He gave Mycroft an easy smile.  "Other than that, I don't know...  Not all that much interesting, I suppose.  I like poetry.  Keats and Yates specifically.  I don't dislike classic literature as much as I let on.  Though I do genuinely hate Hemingway, but I love Fitzgerald.  I can play a bit of guitar; I've been teaching myself over breaks since I haven't been going home to the States.  I don't think anybody knows that.  I certainly haven't played for anyone."  The blonde followed the statement with an almost-shy smile.   "Maybe if I get another drink in me I could play something for you, if you promise not to laugh when I mess up terribly."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, so Neil was just...what, impatient? He said he'd been coming on too strong, which meant he was trying to come on in the first place which meant he was, actually, attracted to Mycroft in that way. Not that that should come as any surprise after that episode on the dance floor, but it would certainly explain the brief glimpses of hunger Mycroft had been seeing. It was just so odd, so surreal to him to think that Neil was having trouble controlling himself around **Mycroft** of all people. No, that was just too good to be true.

And now the older man was doing his best to set Mycroft at ease again, sharing more personal information that he no doubt hoped would encourage Mycroft to share more information in return. Mycroft nearly lost himself in Neil's charms again as the older man offered to play for him later, though with a self-deprecating spin to it that made him seem a little more  bashful, a little more endearing. Mycroft couldn't quite name it, but something in his instincts was telling him something was off and he was suddenly a little more cautious about going with Neil to his flat. Half of him was eager, practically chomping at the bit to continue with the date and the connection he'd started forming with the older man, but the other half was still telling him this could all easily be a trick, or a joke, or a game.

But he smiled and said, "No, of course I wouldn't laugh at you, that'd be terrible of me. That all sounds rather interesting, actually, though I must admit I'm more of a fan of Hemingway. I'm afraid his brevity appealed to me because my mind has a tendency to wander to other things if I'm reading something that's too long. Fitzgerald, though, is a good choice, his short stories are rather lovely." If Neil wasn't going to give him any personal information, then Mycroft wasn't obliged to share any in return. He'd almost forgotten that all a conversation really was was a match between two players. They both hit the talking points back and forth to each other, a gentle, easy return if it was a conversation like this one, unless the players suddenly felt the need to score points. Mycroft, at least, felt that it would be better for the time being to mirror Neil conversationally, and see how the evening went without him pushing it one way or another.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil's fingers positively itched as Mycroft shifted from open and willing to slightly closed off.  It wasn't a full retreat, but something subtle about the younger man's countenance spoke of him retreating somewhat behind his well-established walls.  But what to do about it?  It was the younger man's wonderfully useful but damnably hampering intelligence.  There were two options.  One was to continue to play the game gently, moving soft and slow so as not to startle Mycroft or give too much of his goal away before he was fully hooked.  The other was to feed the auburn haired student drinks and hope that it would suitably diminish his perception.

Well.  Until they were settled in, soft and steady it would have to be.  "Oh, Mycroft no.  I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to imply that I thought you would actually laugh at me.  I know you wouldn't do that.  It's more of a turn of phrase, really."  Neil gracefully rounded the front of the car to stand near his companion; offering his hand rather than reaching over and taking Mycroft's in his own.  Chivalrous.  Gentlemanly.  That was the way to play things for now.  Appeal to Mycroft's posher, more reserved side.  Connect with him on that level.  Green eyes gazed into stormy blue-grey as he smiled apologetically and waited to see if the younger man would take it.

"Shall we head upstairs?  Since you're a Fitzgerald fan as well, I've got a fantastic first edition of 'All The Sad Young Men' that I'd love to show off.  And there's still that scotch, if you're interested."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil was being...better. A little more reserved, a little more careful with Mycroft, as if he didn't want to scare the younger man off. It did a little to calm Mycroft's suddenly reactivated nerves and he only hesitated slightly before taking Neil's hand in his own and smiling at him as if nothing had been wrong in the first place. Which, currently, he was pretending was the truth.

"Of course, we should head upstairs," he said, following Neil and hoping that he was right about this and wasn't making a mistake. It was just...well, an opportunity he couldn't pass up, really. Going to Neil Gibson's place, alone with him, having a nightcap...he had no idea what he'd done to earn Neil's interest in the first place, but now that he had it, he was just doing his best to continue to hold it. Though it seemed he'd been mostly successful so far, and it actually seemed like **Neil** was the one worried about scaring Mycroft away. Funny that.

"Scotch would be lovely, actually, and I'd certainly enjoy seeing your first edition. It might inspire a little book envy, but my own library is rather extensive, so I think it'll be alright," he said with a smile in Neil's direction. He was feeling better, a little more at ease, though that could easily change when he was actually alone with Neil. In Neil's flat. With no idea of where Neil expected the evening to go or where he himself wanted it to go. It still beat sitting alone in his dorm room. "You're quite well-rounded then; you play a sport, an instrument,  dance, and have an appreciation for literature. Is there anything you can't do, Neil Gibson?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Ah, good._  Once Neil toned down his obvious level of interest Mycroft re-engaged in their conversation, once again becoming a bit more calm and open.  He even took hold of Neil's proffered hand, allowing the older student to lead him to the building's elevator.  He smiled warmly at his companion, clamping down hard on his ravenous interest to make sure that none of it came bleeding through.  Most people responded positively to Neil's forceful style of bestowing attention; the blonde supposed it made them feel particularly wanted.  Mycroft, however, seemed to sense the darker undercurrent in Neil's hunger and shied away in response instead of throwing himself headfirst at Neil.  Once again that damnably, wonderfully active brain of his added a previously unknown level of challenge to the usual seduction game.  Despite the fact that he was nearly feral with the need to bind Mycroft to him, to bend the other student to his will, Neil found that he was enjoying the unexpected difficulty.  

The flash in Mycroft's eyes when he mentioned the book was unmistakable, backed up by his confession of potential book-envy.  Neil gave a genial laugh, and nodded.  "I'm quite fond of books myself.  Tell you what.  You can indulge yourself in my library any time if you promise to take me to see your someday."  Still holding Mycroft's hand as they entered the elevator, he gave it a soft squeeze.  "Funny.  I've always felt like letting someone look through your books was a bit like letting them pick through your mind.  You can tell a great deal about a person by what they read.  Still.  Like I said.  Promise me a visit to yours sometime, and you have free reign of all my bookshelves tonight."  There.  That should be an enticing offer, peppered with a bit of false intimacy.  Like very nearly everything else in Neil's apartment, the actual contents of his bookshelves gave precious little away about him other than to reaffirm the sophisticated, mature persona that he had adopted for his time overseas.  No dangers lurked of Mycroft running across too many books on psychology or his extensive collection of the works of Sun Tzu and associated analyses.  Those remained safely boxed up back in the states.  While they made for great conversation pieces with some of his guests, they did have a tendency to make his more intelligent companions a bit nervous.  He gave a genuine laugh at Mycroft's inquiry about all his hobbies; it seemed that the other student was still feeling at least a little dazzled.  Good. That meant things were still on the right track, even if they had to slow down more than Neil normally would have liked.

"I can't cook," he confessed with a grin.  "I've tried, but I could very nearly burn water before I got it to boil.  And despite my father's and uncles' best intentions, I'm terrible at sailing."  Oh.  That created an opportunity.  If he could offer just the right amount of openness, maybe he could get Mycroft talking again, to start revealing all those little cuts and fractures that would be so important when it came to manipulating him at a later date.   _Ah.  There._  "But as for the rest of it, well... It's amazing what I've found time for in my life now that my entire social life isn't being dictated by my father's political schedule."  It was just enough personal information that Mycroft would hopefully feel that he was trusted, while letting Neil display some vulnerability.

It took what felt like small eternity for the elevator to reach the top floor of the building as he let the silence hang between them for a moment, looking down as if he were lost in thought.  Of course his flat was in a corner on the uppermost floor.  It was his one truly lavish indulgence when it came to his living situation.  As he opened the door to admit his guest, emerald eyes appreciatively looked over the contents of his sitting room.  Leather furniture, old wood coffee tables and end tables, and Tiffany-style floor lamps gave the room a warm, inviting feeling.  Though his furnishings were by no means cheap, they weren't nearly as opulent as what he could actually afford.  People liked money, but either flaunting it or displaying too much formality put them off.  It had taken Neil several sets of furniture to finally get the right balance between quality and warmth that set most people directly at ease.  After opening the door he ushered his companion inside ahead of him, watching him carefully to gauge his reaction.

"Well here we are.  Welcome to my flat, Mycroft.  Please.  Make yourself at home.  Now how about I go fix us those drinks? Do you take yours neat or with ice?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft could feel himself easing back under the warm blanket of affection that Neil represented as they traveled to Neil's apartment, Neil taking control of the conversation and opening up slightly again. The squeeze of Mycroft's hand didn't hurt either, setting Mycroft at ease as he remembered that it was Neil who had invited him out, and not the other way around. Sure, the older man could still have some kind of nefarious, yet unknown purpose, but Mycroft didn't believe that. Couldn't believe that, for the sake of his own sanity.

Besides, Neil's flat was nothing if not inviting. It was warm and comfortable, lending itself easily to an intimate but not uncomfortably so atmosphere that Mycroft found reassuring. "Neat," he said in answer to Neil's question, casting a brief smile at the older man as he went into the nearby kitchen to get them glasses. In his absence, Mycroft took a turn around the room, casting his eyes over furniture and décor as he catalogued away, gaining little useful information, but information all the same from the flat. "I'm sorry to hear about your father's involvement in your schedule. I must admit, my own father seems to believe that my time is best spent doing the things most meant to benefit him.

"But my father is a brilliant man, or so I have been assured..." His voice trailed off as he reached a bookshelf, his eyes quickly skimming the titles on the shelf. Typical things for a man of Neil's age, education, social status, and background. No surprises, no hidden eccentricities to tip Mycroft off. The whole of the flat, however, seemed like that. A picture of what was expected, not the truth. A careful balance between extremes meant to set those who came into it at ease; furniture that was tasteful and somewhat expensive, but still well, well within Neil's means and that didn't show any personal touch. Mycroft couldn't point to a piece in the room and say definitively that it felt like Neil. All of the pieces in the apartment belonged, they all made sense and fit in artfully, but none of them were very personally Neil. And it disturbed Mycroft.

He realized he'd left the conversation hanging and pulled away from the books again, briefly debating whether to sit on the loveseat or in one of the chairs before choosing the loveseat, hoping--knowing, really--that it would encourage Neil to sit next to him. He thanked the other man when Neil returned from the kitchen and handed him a glass of scotch, neat, which Mycroft took an appreciative sip of. "Ah, you didn't lie about the quality of the scotch," he said with a smile at Neil. "It's quite excellent. You seem to have impeccable taste, Neil." The question there was implied, understated, but continually running through Mycroft's head; _so why on earth are you spending time with me?_

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Ugh, parents." Neil replied as he settled comfortably onto the loveseat next to Mycroft. It pleased him to see that the younger student had made the most intimate of seating choices.  Perhaps his previous slip up hadn't cost him as much ground as he had feared.  "Why do I get the feeling that both our fathers would get along insufferably well?"  Shifting so his leg just barely touched Mycroft's, he turned to the younger man and continued.

"He's a US Senator, my father.  Everything's about appearances, and social events, which are all just tied back to his bids for re-election.  Until I moved to England for Uni, my life's schedule was pretty much always dictated by him or his advisers."  Neil winced a bit; not because of the content but that he was admitting to anything at all.  Still, Mycroft had already become aware of the emptiness of his platitudes and small tidbits of non-personal information.  If he didn't offer at least something, there was a good chance that the other student wouldn't offer any personal information back either.  At least his father's overbearing involvement in his life and activities wasn't too much of a revelation.  And hell.  Even if Mycroft did plan to use the information against him in some way, who could he tell it to?  Nobody but Neil appeared to be interested in speaking to Mycroft Holmes, and Neil intended on keeping it that way.

"As for the scotch, I may have stolen it from my father's liquor cabinet before I moved over to the UK."  The blonde gave Mycroft a playful grin to compliment the admission.  "A gift from some ambassador from somewhere or another.  I haven't really found anyone that I felt comfortable sharing it with.  Regardless of how I came by it, it's still fine enough scotch that it should be properly appreciated.  I've not met anyone with sufficient taste until tonight."  He allowed his smile to turn soft, being careful to keep the sharp edge of hunger out of his expression as he leaned gently into Mycroft, so their shoulders were touching.

"So I guess that bit about good taste works both ways."  His voice was smooth, low, but not overly suggestive. Still, he couldn't help but let the hand that wasn't holding onto his drink wander and settle just above the younger student's knee.  "You really are something extraordinary, Mycroft.  It's more than a bit heartbreaking that you don't see it in yourself.  I wish I could think of a more eloquent way to convey that to you.  To convince you that you're amazing.  Because you really are."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

_"You really are something extraordinary, Mycroft.  It's more than a bit heartbreaking that you don't see it in yourself.  I wish I could think of a more eloquent way to convey that to you.  To convince you that you're amazing.  Because you really are."_

This wasn't the first time in the evening that Mycroft felt that he was drowning in Neil's emerald eyes, the older man's gaze drawing him in almost magnetically in a way Mycroft couldn't escape, and didn't want to. Between the hand on his knee and that intense gaze focused on him like he was the only interesting thing in the room, Mycroft could easily believe Neil's words, reading nothing extra in between the lines. He'd never had someone call him extraordinary before, at least, not anyone who wasn't engaged in sucking up to his father at the time. The fact that Neil thought that he was amazing was...overwhelming. Mycroft had to tear his gaze away or risk losing himself completely in the older man's gaze, taking a sip of his scotch and letting his eyes skip over the room so he could try to fight the delicate blush highlighting his features. Honestly, it was impossible to have a conversation with Neil if all of his reactions were written all over his face.

He turned back after a minute and smiled at the older man, his blush down to a light rose color, a manageable amount, and put his hand over the hand that was on his knee after some hesitation. "I must say, you've spent the better part of the night complimenting me on my intelligence and you've never allowed me to return the favor. You might not be years ahead of your classmates, but you're extremely bright and I have no doubt of your success in the future. Whatever endeavors you choose to go into, I'm sure you'll be extremely successful."

He paused, a brief moment of doubt flitting across his features as the question came again that had plagued him all evening. "Which is why I have to ask...you could date anyone in this school--and you have, in fact, before--and yet you invited a freshman you barely know out with you and then to your flat. No doubt you've noticed that I myself don't often engage in romantic relationships, though mine are discreet enough that you wouldn't have noticed anyway. So I have to know, Neil..." He looked at that green gaze again, insecurity bleeding into his expression. "I suppose it may seem forward of me to ask about the future at such an early date and it's certainly rude to ask you this, but...what exactly are your intentions towards me?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft's query into Neil's intentions took the blonde by surprise.  A momentary pang of panic shot through him, as he was certain that the younger man had caught onto the game before it had truly begun.  But one glance at his aristocratic face was all Neil needed to reassure himself that the auburn haired student was none the wiser to his true aim than he was at the beginning of the night.  No, a pained insecurity was written over his lovely features; it pinched the corners of his mouth, drew his auburn brows together, and filled his storm-cloud blue eyes with sorrow and concern.  Perfect.  He looked so vulnerable, so very breakable in that moment that it took nearly all Neil's self control to pack away his predatory tendencies and instead greet the question with the answer he had been concocting all evening.

"I'll be completely honest with you," he lied, the words sliding effortlessly from his lips.  Honesty was for people who were too short sighted or simple to craft a clever lie.  No, there was no chance that Mycroft would ever get the whole truth out of him.  But it certainly sounded soul-baring and appealing to say he would.  "I have two completely different and conflicting sets of intentions.  Well, maybe one is less of an 'intention' and more of a 'desire'."

"You see," he purred, voice rich and deep as he slid a hair closer to the younger man, verdant eyes ablaze with the predatory hunger that he had so carefully dismissed earlier.  But it was important that Mycroft see just how badly Neil wanted him, so he would know what the older man was giving up (well, more like 'putting off') when he abandoned it in favor of the other student's comfort.

"Part of me very much wants to sit here with you, leaning against each other comfortably as we discuss literature, good scotch and as much of our upbringings as we feel comfortable sharing for the rest of the night.  You're very astute, and you have a thoughtful consideration about you that I'd love to see more of."

"The other part of me isn't nearly as gentlemanly.  That part wants to slide up against you and snog that lovely mouth of yours until neither of us can breathe properly."  Carefully, Neil let the full force of his desirous gaze dissipate, watching Mycroft with what he hoped still passed for kind, concerned eyes.  "But **only** if you're comfortable with that.  Because my biggest intention, Mycroft, is to make sure you have a good enough time that you want to come back and see me again."

"I deeply enjoy spending time with you.  The idea that I could date anyone is flattering and kind, but entirely inaccurate."  Now it was time for the real show to begin.  Neil turned his head away from Mycroft, breaking his gaze with the younger man's carefully considering cobalt gaze.  "I'm sure you've noticed over the course of the evening but I'm not quite like our fellow students. I'm... not quite 'normal', as I've been told repeatedly.  I'm slightly off.  Hence all this."  Tanned fingers gestured broadly at their warm, inviting, but impersonal surroundings.  "Normal enough to put people at ease, even if I accidentally let myself slip.  I'm nowhere near as uncommonly bright as you are, but I'm certainly closer to your ilk than I am to the general student population.  And as soon as my partners realize that, well... Needless to say there's a reason that I've not dated anyone for long."

"So honestly, as magnetically **drawn** to you as I feel, I don't want to do anything to endanger our connection.  Because this is the first time since attending Uni that I haven't felt like I needed to hide everything about myself behind that thin veneer of practiced political charisma."  He sighed, low and soft.

"I guess that's why I'm so enamored of you.  I recognized something in you that seemed so familiar, and I just had to know if you understood.  And we talked, even briefly and I knew that you did.  And..." Neil let his voice stutter slightly, feigning a thickness "Well, with you around I just feel less lonely than I ever have.  So of course I want you, Mycroft Holmes.  As a friend, as a companion, and anything else that you'll let me be."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was it. Neil was gathering himself, preparing to speak, and Mycroft was sure that as soon as that mouth opened Neil was going to confirm his worst fears and leave Mycroft alone again, so terribly alone. But that didn't happen. Oh no, quite the opposite. Mycroft felt his heartbeat speed up as Neil slid closer to him, the movement nearly subtle enough to be an accident, though with Neil's tone and expression and not to mention those jaw-dropping words coming out of his mouth, Mycroft knew it was far from accidental.

Wait. Wait, this didn't make any sense. Neil wanted him. Neil wanted to--to--Mycroft felt himself flushing again, a rose blush unfolding itself over his cheeks at the mere thought of another kiss like the hungry one Neil had surprised him with earlier. Well, he couldn't say that it exactly surprised him that Neil wanted him--the man had hardly been able to keep the predatory gleam out of his eyes since they came to the flat, since the parking garage, actually--but hearing that he was putting that off because he wanted Mycroft to be comfortable...

And it didn't stop there. No, Neil just continued, plowing straight through Mycroft's doubt with his soft-spoken words about being closer to Mycroft than he was to any of their peers. About his impersonal apartment being protection, really, a defense meant to set people at ease. About his desire for Mycroft's companionship, and more.

_"So of course I want you, Mycroft Holmes.  As a friend, as a companion, and anything else that you'll let me be."_

_So of course I want you, Mycroft Holmes._

_I want you, Mycroft Holmes._

Mycroft's blood was rushing in his ears before he had even fully registered Neil's words, the actual words themselves having been shattered into a thousand individual pieces, each with a different meaning and a different connotation, Mycroft's usually quicksilver brain trying to break them down into their base components, parse them for their meaning. Because surely Neil hadn't actually meant them that way. He'd said them, sure, but there was something that Mycroft was missing, some hidden agenda, some secret joke, because Neil couldn't mean them the way they sounded. That just wasn't possible, no matter how much he wanted it to be true. Neil hadn't even looked his way once before today, he might as well have been invisible to the older man, and yet after one conversation Neil had invited Mycroft on a date, and after one date he'd invited him back to his place and was telling him that he wanted to be anything Mycroft would let him be.

Words failed for a minute. Several times his lips parted, tongue darting out quickly to lick them nervously a few times, but then they closed again. What should he do? Talking seemed like the most logical response, explaining to Neil that **god yes** Mycroft wanted him to be much more than a friend, but since the English language didn't seem to be cooperating at the moment, that option was a bust. If he were in a romantic movie, it would be sufficient for him to answer by kissing Neil, but he was shaking far too much with nerves at just the thought. So no, no kissing. Besides, as much as he liked Neil, that predatory gleam filled him with as much anxiety as excitement. He didn't like that side of Neil as much, it seemed there was something...unsavory under the surface of that particular veneer, as much as Neil claimed that he didn't have to wear any masks around Mycroft.

Unable to decide on a suitable course of action, Mycroft settled for the neutral option: retreat. "Where's your rest room?" he managed to ask after a minute of breathless silence in which Neil was certainly waiting for a response from him. The older blonde seemed confused, but pointed in the general direction and Mycroft took off like a shot, placing his scotch on the coffee table and excusing himself with an apology before he was out of sight and then, blessedly, had a locked door between him and Neil. It wasn't that he didn't trust the other man, he just needed to think, and that apparently couldn't be done in Neil's presence anymore.

Mycroft leaned back against the closed door, closing his eyes for a minute as he breathed to ease the pressure in his chest caused by his anxiety. God, he was a grown man, he could deal with a romantic situation, he was perfectly capable! But while his mind was advanced beyond his years, he was still only eighteen. And alone with a man a few years older than himself who was hungry for him and had expressed an interest in an actual romantic relationship with him. And the man in question happened to be Neil Gibson, who he had been quietly stalking for some time. Jesus, what was he doing hiding in the bathroom like a nervous schoolgirl? He could handle this. He knew what he wanted.

Or, at least, he thought he did. Mycroft leaned over the sink, running the faucet so he could splash some cold water on his face, hoping it would help him think more clearly. It did. No matter what darkness lingered around the edges of Neil's smile, it was still worth it to at least give this a shot. Mycroft wasn't going to get another chance like this, and who knew if he was even going to get another chance period. Aside from a few brief flings in his teenage years, no one had really expressed romantic interest in him. Certainly since arriving at Uni he hadn't had any interested parties. So. He had to take this chance with Neil, and he knew it was worth it. And if it didn't end up working out, he could always end the relationship, right?

He dried his hands and face on the hand towel on the towel rack--clean, soft, expensive fabric, monogrammed with Neil's initials, a gift, not a male figure, mother, perhaps?--and took a few more steadying breaths as he looked at himself in the mirror above the vanity. He looked far younger than he usually did. Oh well, he thought with a twist of his lips, more humorless than anything else. Neil seemed to like it.

When he came out of the bathroom and found his way back to the sitting room, Neil was where he'd left him, scotch in hand on the loveseat as he evidently waited for Mycroft, the expression on his face as his green eyes firmly pinned the younger man down again unreadable. Neil's gaze always had the intensity of a hunter focusing on distant prey, but Mycroft didn't find it fazing him as he sat down next to the other man again, offering him a half-hearted smile that he couldn't keep his nerves out of.

"I apologize," he started, his voice as neat and careful as ever, "I didn't mean to offend you by leaving the room so quickly after what you said. I merely needed a minute to compose myself before I could continue with the conversation. To answer your query..." He paused, a faint blush creeping back into his cheeks. Technically Neil hadn't actually asked a question, but instead Mycroft had picked up the implication from his statements. "To answer your query, of course, I would love to...be more than friends with you. Truly, I have enjoyed this evening immensely and would be delighted to spend more time with you. Though the thought of you fearing rejection from me is nearly laughable, and I'm sure you already had an idea what my response would be to your intentions, Neil. I just did not anticipate those intentions."

"And as for making me comfortable, I believe that there is little you could do at this point that would make me uncomfortable enough to not wish to return to see you." He offered Neil a genuine smile, the truth behind the sentiment clear. Neil really could do little to drive him away at this point, unless he purposefully tried to push him away. No, Mycroft was intent on staying, and little could change his mind on that count. "So snogging me senseless is entirely up to your discretion."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft's sudden departure threw his companion for quite the loop.  Neil could feel the tension in his forehead as his blonde brows knit together as the younger man disappeared down the hallway into the washroom.  Neil could feel the corners of his mouth turn down; face mirroring his internal concern.  That reaction had been completely unexpected.  By all rights Mycroft should have fallen right into his arms, desperate to take the appreciation and affection that was being offered.  Instead he had pulled back entirely, retreating to another room altogether.  Puzzled, Neil tried to delve deeper into what could have happened, frozen on the loveseat with his scotch still in hand.

He had offered Mycroft everything the younger man had wanted.  Companionship, compliments, understanding, reassurance; hell he had even gone out of his way to prove that he'd put the other student's comfort before his own satisfaction.  Well, at least for now.  In order to make himself any more available he would have had to shuck his clothes upon entry to the flat, with a sign that read "just as lonely and emotionally vulnerable as you" hung around his neck.  Each advance the older student made seemed to take him a few steps closer, but he kept crossing some invisible line that Mycroft had drawn, and he couldn't quite figure out where the damnable thing was.  He craved intimacy, but panicked when presented with it.  He wanted understanding and acceptance, but remained vigilantly suspicious of Neil's compliments and flattery.

What a complicated, frustrating creature Mycroft was turning out to be.  On one hand, the challenge was delightful; trying to figure out the younger student so he could pick him apart was an engaging challenge that satisfied Neil in ways that few things had since coming to England.  The painful counterpoint to that was the fact that Neil's small reserve of patience was quickly drying up.  It was quite tortuous, to have Mycroft dangle himself in front of the older man like a tasty morsel, only to keep pulling himself away at the last minute.  

Finally, Mycroft reemerged, his hairline slightly damp from where he had obviously been splashing water on his face.  The rose-petal blush had faded from his aristocratic cheekbones, but the panic had also faded from his cobalt eyes.  Neil studied him carefully, trying to read what was going through the younger man's mind by observing his body language.  Unfortunately he kept getting distracted by Mycroft's physical appearance; mind considering the aesthetically pleasing contrast between his broad-ish shoulders and comparatively narrow waist.

Mycroft slowly walked over to the loveseat, slotting himself back into his place next to Neil with an apologetic, nervous smile.  His voice was cool and controlled, but his fine boned face betrayed him as he blushed through the explanation of his departure.  Anxiety was written in every halting gesture and self-deprecating phrase he made.  Still, for all his difficulties the younger man did finally admit to wanting more than a casual friendship, and even appeared to give Neil free reign to guide their interactions to something distinctly less platonic.

"If you leave it up to my discretion I'm going to kiss you, you know."  Concern that Neil hoped didn't come across as false threaded through his voice.  "Not just because I want you, Mycroft.  But because I want you to be able to tangibly **feel** how desirable you are to me."  A soft, shy nod was all the encouragement that the blonde needed to move forward, fluidly wrapping an arm around Mycroft's narrow waist and gently tugging him closer.

"Shh," he whispered, bringing his mouth within millimeters of Mycroft's.  "Don't think so hard about this.  Just feel," he murmured, brushing his lips against the younger man's for a bare second before retreating again.  "Take everything you need to know about us from the way that this feels."  The blonde advanced, pressing his lips to Mycroft's as he raised his hands to cup gently around the sides of the younger man's face.  The pads of his fingers brushed lightly against the fine auburn hair at the other man's temples in an attempt to soothe the last of Mycroft's hesitancy out of him.  

Though the embrace was not chaste, Neil did fight himself to keep it sweet.  Slowly, he moved his lips and tongue against the soft, yielding flesh of Mycroft's mouth; enjoying the soft shivers that ran through the younger man when his tongue swept deeply into the younger man's mouth.  Neil skillfully countered each of his deeper thrusts with soft, chaste brushes of lips against lips, the contrast serving to work Mycroft into the promised state of breathlessness that had been offered just a few moments before.  When he finally pulled away, staring deeply into his companion's heavily-lidded blue eyes, he could see his victory in the blissful expression on Mycroft's face.  Game set and match.  Though there was still work to be done in fully binding the younger man to him, Mycroft Holmes was effectively **his**.

"There," he panted, placing feather light kisses along Mycroft's cheekbone before nuzzling up against his ear.  "Are you properly senseless, as I promised you that you would be?  Or do I need to offer you further incentive to just let go a bit and enjoy yourself?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Neil pulled him closer, urging him to stop thinking and just let himself feel for once, Mycroft wasn't quite sure he was up to the task. Shutting his brain off was nearly impossible through sheer force of will, and there were few things outside of himself that helped anyway. Even when he was asleep, his brain hardly let him rest, and he woke up more often than not with a dozen more thoughts than he'd gone to sleep with. But when Neil's lips actually pressed against his, the kiss chaste at first, then turning deeper but just as relaxed as Neil's tongue swept into his mouth in a way that was gently domineering, he found to his amazement that his brain did temporarily shut itself off.

Gone. Quiet. Lovely. He was losing himself in sensation, in the feel of Neil's hands gentle against his face and Neil's lips and tongue, the older man alternating his kisses in an unpredictable way that was unbearably sweet and kept Mycroft on his toes, unsure of what to expect from him next, but knowing that no matter what it was, he would like it. He let himself relax into Neil's touch, the silence coming from his overworked brain making it all that much easier to just relax, unwind, and let himself enjoy this. All too soon, however, it was over, and Neil was laying a line of kisses along his cheek and nuzzling into his ear in a way that made Mycroft's neglected heart skip a beat, the older man slightly breathless from their encounter and asking if Mycroft was the same.

As promised, Mycroft's breath seemed to have been stolen away from him, leaving him to merely breathe out his words when he finally managed to speak, which took a minute, his brain playing catch-up as it slowly came back to life, the rush of thoughts nearly overwhelming him after the quiet he'd savored. "Senseless is a good word for it," he breathed, leaning so he could rest his head against Neil's shoulder, a jolt of pleasure going through him at the thought that he could do this without consequence, that Neil had initiated such casual contact in the first place and Mycroft could continue it as he pleased. It was a little bit heady, actually, when he thought about the fact that he was getting exactly what he wanted from the one person he wanted it from. Neil was legitimately invested in him. That could change, of course, and very easily, as Mycroft's creeping insecurity told him, but right now, in this moment, Neil still wanted him and Mycroft could feel his desire in that kiss, an undercurrent that ran through even the chaste kisses Neil had bestowed on him.

Oh, this was dangerous. Mycroft was ready to give himself over to Neil mind, body, and soul, let him in like he'd never let anyone else in before. He could show Neil the cracks in his psyche and the flaws lying underneath, and he felt reassured that Neil wouldn't reject him. But the danger was still there, the feeling that this was going to disappear before he even got to enjoy it. So he let his head rest on Neil's shoulder, breathing in the scent of the other man and slowly relaxing against him, forcefully pushing away all his doubts and insecurities. If he thought about this too much it would be over before it began, and he wanted this to last a very long time. Being with Neil tonight had made him the happiest he'd been since he started to attend Uni, and he didn't want that feeling to go away, didn't want Neil to go away.

When he finally raised his head, it was to give Neil a rueful smile, his hands smoothing down the lapels of the other man's jacket almost unconsciously. God, he was already kicking this off right by being clingy and practically collapsing after a kiss. _Oh. Oh no._ And just like that, the spell was broken as Mycroft realized with a growing sense of dread that he couldn't actually have this. Neil wasn't really offering what he wanted, Neil was just luring him in before he short changed him. Oh no. Mycroft pulled back from Neil completely, needing some space between them in order for his already hazy mind to think. "Ah. As lovely as this has been, Neil, there's still an...issue that I believe we need to resolve. Specifically the issue that ended your last relationship," Mycroft said, blue eyes searching Neil's face for the reaction to his words.

"I'm afraid that you and I want different things out of a relationship, and I want to make that clear before I try to pursue anything with you. I would be deeply unhappy in a relationship that was not mutually exclusive, and am certainly not the type to casually date. If I were to be in a relationship with you, I'd take it very seriously. I do not blame you for how your last relationship ended, but it did make me realize that we want very different things. If you're only interested in me casually, that's fine, but I can't see you again. It's better for me that I don't get--emotionally involved."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft felt almost delicate in Neil's arms as the auburn haired man rested his head gingerly against Neil's broader shoulder.  The younger man was perfectly quiet and still; the only motion coming from him was the soft heave of his chest as his rapid breathing returned to a more regular pace.  With those frighteningly observant blue eyes off him for a moment, Neil allowed himself a satisfied smile.  The blonde knew he had no small amount of skill when it came to physicality, but Mycroft seemed to be exceptionally sensitive to his particular brand of affection.  The way the younger man molded himself to Neil's chest had a desperate sweetness to it; half comprised of appreciation and hazy shock, the other half betraying the sense of almost-desperation that Mycroft felt.  In a way, the redhead leaned against Neil with the desperation of someone seeking shelter in a storm.  The older student was nearly ready to pull his younger counterpart in for another kiss when the thin frame next to his tensed and stiffened.  Before he could ask what was wrong, Mycroft had pulled back entirely, carefully making sure that no part of their bodies remained touching. Long fingered hands worked gently over Neil's lapels, and the look in the younger man's eyes was somewhat mournful as he detailed the incompatibilities of their previous dating lives.  In particular, Neil's dating history.

Emerald eyes watched Mycroft with a small amount of shock and concern, both used to cover his growing annoyance.  On one hand, Mycroft being rather unpredictable had proved to be a satisfying challenge.  But Neil disliked the constant setbacks that Mycroft kept throwing in his way.  That was an entirely unexpected reaction, and Neil allowed the genuine confusion and concern to show on his face; using the emotions to cover the flicker of anger that stirred deep within him.  Good lord, how difficult could one posh little genius be?  Stormcloud blue eyes gazed up at him with unfiltered sincerity, and Mycroft appeared to be fully prepared for Neil to dismiss him completely.  What an amazing tangle of incredible intelligence and self-depreciating tendencies he was.  His initial walls were proving more difficult than anticipated to breach, but good lord in heaven would the rewards be worth it.  Once he finally convinced Mycroft that he wanted him, that he cared for him, there'd be precious little the gifted younger man wouldn't do for him.  It was a heady feeling that made Neil's blood sing, sensation tempered only by the frustration of not yet having achieved that goal.   Well, at least this little project would give him a chance to build the patience that his parents were constantly nagging him to develop.

"Mycroft.  Does this feel casual to you?"  Broad fingers reached forward to trace a line across one high cheekbone, traveling downward along the elegant line of his jaw.  Finally, Neil brushed the pads of his fingertips across Mycroft's recently-kissed lips, biting back a satisfied smile as he shuddered slightly under the touch.  "Don't ever presume to tell me what I want when I know quite clearly what my aim is.  And in case I've been too vague, my aim is to spend time, much more time with you.  You want exclusivity?  Good.  I wouldn't settle for less, not with someone like you."   _Besides, it's not like you'll leave me with the time or energy to pursue anything else, at least for awhile.  No, pet.  By the time I'm ready to invest time in another chase you'll be so tangled up in me you won't be able to even think about complaining._ He carded a hand through Mycroft's auburn hair, resisting the urge to tangle his fingers there and pull the younger man closer.  Instead, he let his hand drop reassuringly to the younger man's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

"Really, Mycroft," he chided.  "Were you not listening at all to what I told you earlier?  You mustn't think very highly of me, to assume that I'd throw words like that around so lightly."  Neil complimented the words with a practiced flash of hurt in his green eyes, casting them downwards and allowing them to break the intense gaze between them.  "I meant every word, Mycroft.  In particular, when I said that nobody else got me, that I hadn't really connected with anyone else.  I meant it.  So no.  There isn't going to be anyone else turning my head.  How could they?  I have everything I ever wanted but never dared to hope for right here," he finished, placing one hand over Mycroft's chest, right above his heart.  " I must admit that I didn't expect it, that you pulled the rug out from under me a bit by being as genuine and captivating as you are, but there you have it. It's done.  I've fallen quite hard for you, Mycroft."  Carefully, he raised his eyes again, searching his companion's expression for the surrender and relief he had so carefully been cultivating.  The younger man looked a bit stymied, and Neil used the opportunity to continue to compliment and reassure the him, half from curiosity to see if he could short-circuit that wonderful brain of Mycroft's by telling it things that he had never dared believe about himself.

"Now stop looking for reasons to run away and come here.  You **do** deserve this, you know."  He gathered one of the younger man's aristocratically elegant hands in his own, turning it so that it rested palm down against Neil's.  "You really are beautiful.  Amazing.  Captivating.  Breathtaking, even."  With a small smile, he pressed his lips the back of each of Mycroft's knuckles with each compliment.  "And I'm not just talking about that pretty face of yours.  Or your magnificent brain.  I'm talking about you, the whole of you, as a person.  How could anyone hope to compete with that?"  The older man gave a soft, affectionate laugh.  "No, I fear you may have ruined me to other people forever, Mycroft Holmes."

"Now, tell me.  Would you like another kiss to seal the deal?"  Neil smiled, allowing just a sliver of his previous hunger to show through.  "I'd be **yours**.  Wholly and exclusively yours Mycroft, so long as you'd do the same for me."   _At least as long as it's convenient for me.  You, on the other hand, will belong to me for good._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last of the Uni-only chapters for the time being, in which Mycroft makes a decision and Neil gets more than he hoped for.
> 
> Warnings: Angst, general predatory behavior, one-sided relationship, sexual content, frottage

_"I'd be yours.  Wholly and exclusively **yours** Mycroft, so long as you'd do the same for me."_

A thrill went through Mycroft at those words, his heart--already staggering from the compliments and affection Neil was giving him--seeming to stop for a moment. Those were the words that broke the levee that was Mycroft Holmes, as relief and surrender and affection came into his gaze in full force, an eagerness to please on the tip of his tongue as usual as he tried to sum up the effect that Neil had on him in words. He mostly ended up just tripping over his own words in his haste, but Neil was patient enough to wait until Mycroft could actually speak.

He smiled first, though, to show Neil the absolute relief he felt, the weight off his shoulders from the assurance the older man gave him that he wasn't going anywhere. It seemed nothing was going to shake this fledgling connection he'd formed with Neil, except perhaps Mycroft himself if he couldn't keep his mouth shut and just enjoy this. Stop looking for reasons why he couldn't have this. His own insecurity was going to tear the relationship to shreds before it even started, if he let things continue this way, so instead he smiled at Neil and took a deep breath  before he answered.

"Of course, Neil," he said, and there was no artifice in his words. "If you're mine, I'll gladly be yours." The slight blush in his cheeks ruined the effect of his next words, but at least he managed to get them out without stammering. "Another kiss would be...well, lovely." He met Neil halfway on this one, as eager to take the older man's affection as Neil was to give it, and nearly shivered as his brain nearly shut off once more.

His mind had already been stymied by the barrage of compliments and kind words from Neil, not to mention the soft touches along his face and chest, and another kiss seemed to tip it right over the edge again, knocking him momentarily senseless and permitting him to kiss Neil back with a fervor he didn't even know he possessed. Though, really, what didn't he have to be excited about? He was ecstatic. He had gotten an admission from Neil that he was serious about Mycroft, and he'd known him less than a day! Neil wanted to date him, quite possibly long term, and the whole thing made Mycroft wonder exactly what he'd done for such ridiculous, incredible luck.

Neil was a boon to Mycroft, a blessing really. In just the short time he'd been here at Uni, his peers had made it abundantly clear that he was not one of them, an outsider, an interloper in their world. Tolerated, but openly disliked. Neil Gibson was an outsider as well, but for entirely different reasons. They considered him a superior, someone to be bowed and simpered to, looked up to as something to aspire to. And somehow, he'd chosen Mycroft. He'd seen past the insecurities and the doubt and the social awkwardness and he'd seen the man underneath, and he'd actually liked him, which was a miracle in itself. Mycroft could hardly believe his luck, and the only thought running through his head as his lips brushed against Neil's was that he hoped to god that this didn't end soon. He wanted to hold on to Neil for as long as possible.

~~~~~~~~~

When Mycroft gave a small but visible shudder of relief at the end of his speech, Neil allowed a tiny, satisfied smile to spread across his lips.  Certainly it wasn't the beaming grin of satisfaction that he inwardly carried, but he knew he had to watch himself and his reactions around the sharp young man next to him.  Anything too blatant and Mycroft would start digging for another reason to be suspicious.  And seeing as the older blonde had finally managed to break that levee he had no intention of giving Mycroft reason to backtrack behind the safety of more barriers.

His auburn haired companion smiled gratefully, and practically melted into Neil as his shoulders leveled out.  No longer drawn inward from shyness or a subconscious need to protect himself, Neil noticed (and not for the first time since they arrived back at his flat) how broad they were in comparison to Mycroft's slender waist and hips.  The thought sent a little shudder through him, which he tried his hardest to suppress.  While normally most anyone else he turned that much charm on would be practically dragging him to bed Mycroft seemed to be of a different breed altogether.  He certainly presented a longer game, but with potentially much greater rewards.  No sense in bringing things to a premature and unsatisfactory end simply because his desires made him heavy handed.  

Though the idea of what Mycroft would be like in bed was another interesting puzzle about the seemingly timid younger man.  Neil had assumed that he was a virgin; certainly he hadn't noticed the student with any other students on campus and someone as driven and intelligent as Mycroft would be even less well received in high school as he was in University.  But Mycroft had made a previous allusion to having some discreet relationships, though obviously nothing had stuck.  What an odd behavior for someone of his age.  Normally young couples, even those that wouldn't be quite as well received by the general public, had a hard time keeping their hands off each other in public.  And certainly none of his prior relationships had seemed to provide him with any type of self appreciation or general understanding of his worth.  It would have been sad, if it hadn't set the poor lad up perfectly to fall into Neil's arms.

Then, Mycroft was leaning forward with his lovely pink mouth slightly parted and there was nothing left to think about.  The younger man went practically boneless in his arms as he started kissing Neil back; tongue darting across his lower lip and gently, teasingly licking at the inside of his mouth with a passion that was entirely unexpected.  The older blonde brought one hand up to rest in the small of Mycroft's back, offering the younger man a bit of support while also tugging them together.  With their torsos flush together he could bask in the slight heat coming off the younger student in waves, feel the gentle movements of his chest as he tried to balance kissing and breathing.  Good god, he could almost feel Mycroft's heartbeat even through layers of expensive suiting.  If he kept kissing him like that, Neil couldn't possibly be held responsible for his reactions.  As it was, his heart was already thundering in his ears and his fingertips were tingling.  It wouldn't be long until certain other parts of him began stirring as well, and that was likely more than Mycroft had intended on receiving when he initiated their kiss.  Fortunately, the younger man withdrew before Neil's body could do anything particularly untoward.

After their lips parted, Neil was forced to rethink his previously settled upon strategy of keeping a tight reign on his physical intentions for their relationship.  The fervor with which his embrace was returned spoke of something smoldering just beneath the surface of Mycroft's seemingly prim demeanor.  Well, if that was the way the younger man felt, there certainly was no sense in acting as if he was uninterested in that aspect of Mycroft.  Quite the opposite in fact.  Engaging in some mutually beneficial carnality was a surefire way to cement a relationship, and it was far less tedious than listening to someone prattle on about themselves.  Neil could do give and take very well in conversation, and usually achieved his goals with little trouble.  But Mycroft was too clever by half, and words could easily be misread or betray his deeper intentions.  No, physicality was the way to go, even if at first it was outside of the bedroom only.  At least at first.

"That was **_fantastic_**.  So much so that I could do with another drink.  And you, Mycroft?"  He nodded to his companion's empty tumbler with an easy smile.  When the younger man nodded, he collected up the glass and took it over to the standing bar that sat at the edge of the kitchen and dinette.  When he returned with their glasses in hand, Neil brushed his fingers against Mycroft's for longer than strictly necessary as he passed over his drink.  As he settled easily back into his seat next to Mycroft he made sure that their legs were touching, and complimented the gesture by wrapping one arm around Mycroft's shoulder and playing with the short, soft hairs on the back of his neck.

"So, would you prefer to look at the library next?  Or perhaps you'd like to dance a bit more?"  He smiled when Mycroft blushed at that suggestion, renewing the pink tinge to his cheeks that had only managed to fully fade just a few moments before.  "If you like, I could go get my guitar.  Or I'm also just happy to sit here with you for awhile.  If all your kisses are like the last, I could easily spend the rest of the evening doing that."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The kiss was slow, and simmering, and Mycroft allowed himself to push for a little dominance this time, showing a glimpse of the previously hidden hunger that was under the surface, awakened again by Neil's obvious interest in him. He wanted to give as much as he took from Neil, who was responding rather positively to that idea by pulling him closer, his hand on the small of Mycroft's back automatically causing Mycroft to arch against him slightly, their chests flush, the contact between them more generous than before. Mycroft could stay like this for hours, pressed up against Neil and trying to steal the older man's breath away by exploring his mouth with his tongue, but he pulled back just before it got to be too much, breath a little quicker than it had been before they started.

Neil offered to get him more scotch and Mycroft quickly nodded, needing a little space from the other man to catch his breath, which Neil needed too if the haze of lust in his green eyes before he left was anything to go by. Good, good, this was going so well. Mycroft was actually proud of himself for how well he'd managed the situation, considering he could have easily been swept off his feet by Neil's dizzying charms and already in bed with the man for what would probably be a satisfying but short-lived romance. This was better. Taking their time, dragging things out. That thought was solidified when Neil returned, his hand lingering on Mycroft's when he handed him his drink. To Mycroft's surprise and delight, the older man also wrapped an arm around his shoulder, his fingers going to play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Mycroft felt himself relax under the touch, feeling rather like a cat that was being pet by its owner. Well, if this was what being owned felt like, he certainly couldn't object to it. Especially when Neil was talking about what they could do and all of the options sounded lovely, though Mycroft found himself blushing as soon as the word 'dance' crossed Neil's lips, the memory of that positively ravenous kiss crossing his mind again. Luckily Neil was talking about kissing now, but just kissing, and Mycroft felt a small wave of relief at that. It was good that the older man was letting him take things slowly, was encouraging it, in fact. Mycroft had a small amount of experience in that area but certainly nowhere near as much as Neil, and if he did go all the way with Neil, it would be the first time he had done so. So slow was a good way to go. Work up to it with things Mycroft had experience with until he could try the things he didn't have experience with. And he certainly had plenty of experience with kissing.

Suddenly it was too hot in the flat and he pulled away from Neil for a moment, setting his drink down as he said, "I'm afraid I can't make a decision when all of those options sound equally lovely. Books, drinking, dancing, singing and kissing...what more do you need, aside from good company?" He removed his suit jacket as he spoke, folding it over the arm of the couch and turning back to Neil as he unbuttoned his cuffs. Without the jacket, he was left in his white button-up, a charcoal vest and red tie complementing the understated outfit, the whole effect rather elegant and serving to highlight his slim waist and hips, fitted as the clothes were to his frame. Rolling up his cuffs was short work and then he scooted closer to Neil, settling fully against his side and letting the older man's hand return to playing with his auburn hair. "But really," he said, a smile on his lips as he looked back at the other man, "I think we have good company rather covered.

"So as to what we should do, I can't say I have a preference. As much as I would love to hear how you're coming along with learning the guitar, it's hard to imagine letting you get up from the couch. Perhaps we should sit here instead and if we run out of things to talk about, we can always get the guitar, or look at the books, or kiss. Your choice," he said, unable to keep the smile off of his lips and, it seemed, to chase the blush away that had apparently settled into his cheeks for the night. It was hard to flirt with Neil when he was blushing at the words coming out of his own mouth, but he was going to do his best anyway. This was all give and take, and so far he'd been taking more than giving. Time to show Neil exactly how interested he was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Disappointingly, Mycroft seemed satisfied with snogging.  He had hoped the undercurrent of lust he felt as the younger man took the lead in their previous kiss would come roaring out once released, but the most scandalous thing Mycroft did once they broke apart was to take off his suit jacket.

Though good lord in heaven did that charcoal and red combination look good on him.  It was completely and entirely unfair.  If the younger man hadn't want to be utterly ravaged then why was he dressed like _that_?  The fitted cut of the waistcoat highlighted his waist and torso in all the right ways.  Neil was terribly tempted to just snatch the auburn haired man up and carry him off to the bedroom to set about a long night of convincing Mycroft that he wanted and needed the intimacy too.  Instead, he coughed slightly before rising and excusing himself instead of responding to Mycroft's choice of activities.  Yes.  

Space would be necessary before continuing, especially if all he was going to get out of this evening other than a hook in the boy's throat was a series of sexually frustrating kisses.  The bathroom was a few degrees cooler than the sitting room, which helped Neil control his all over-flush.  A bit of cold water on the face did the same.  Hell, the idea of satisfying himself was very enticing, but something told him that no matter how little time he took or how thoroughly he cleaned himself up Mycroft would somehow know.  The older blonde bit back a growled curse, and instead of working himself with his hand he practiced a few minutes off deep breathing to get his pulse and overstimulated brain back under control.  With a renewed sense of self control he sauntered back out into the living room, snatching up his tumbler and pouring another glass of scotch  before settling back in next to Mycroft.

"Apologies," he murmured as he shifted in his seat, making sure that they were touching in every way they had been before Neil's abrupt departure.  No need in the younger student thinking that his full body lean against Neil's torso was a turn-off, when in fact it was quite the opposite.  He wound one arm back around Mycroft's shoulders, but this time instead of playing with the hair on the back of the younger man's neck he let his fingers wander through the fine auburn strands at his temples.

"Alright.  Where were we? Ah, yes.  Topics of discussion.  Hmm.  Well I have to admit that I'm still just as curious about you as when we arrived.  So you get the first question" he offered with a grin.  "Where do you hail from, Mycroft Holmes?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft was surprised by Neil's abrupt departure, though surely not as surprised as Neil had been when he'd left earlier, and sat on the couch trying to figure out if he'd done something wrong in the past few minutes. Let's see, they'd been kissing, then he'd taken off his suit jacket and said something about conversation, and then Neil had just left. Flushed. Ah.

It seemed that in truth, Neil might not be as alright with taking things slowly as he claimed to be. Mycroft should have expected that. The older student obviously wanted to make him as comfortable as possible, which included taking things slowly even if that wasn't what Neil necessarily wanted. Well, to Mycroft it was obvious that that wasn't what Neil wanted. But that didn't mean that Mycroft had to do anything he was uncomfortable with. He could very easily continue on as they had been, going along with Neil making him comfortable and taking his time as he liked.

But there was that fear again, that insecurity. He knew Neil wanted him, but if Mycroft slowed things down too much and took too much time, would the older man's interest wane? After all, Neil was used to dating his peers, students his own age, people who were certainly more willing and experienced than Mycroft, especially since most of his relationships were "casual" and casual was just another way to say "based on sex and not much else". He was still debating the issue when Neil came back, looking more composed as he settled back on the couch, as close to Mycroft as he had been before, a slight grin going in place as he asked Mycroft about himself.

Suddenly moving things more quickly was looking like a much better option. The last thing Mycroft wanted to do was talk about himself and his rather bleak formative years, or about his overbearing father or his home life or any of that. He didn't want Neil to see the cracks in his psyche underneath the layers of defenses, definitely not this early on. Never, if he could manage it. So, as Neil started absently carding his fingers through the hair at Mycroft's temple, Mycroft let his hand come to rest on Neil's knee as if by accident, not moving, just resting patiently. "Oh no, you don't want to hear about me," he said with a slight smile. "My life has never been very interesting, I'm afraid. Besides, I didn't think you were the type to engage in such pedestrian small talk. I'm sure we can find more interesting things to...engage in."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Green eyes widened as Mycroft's elegant hand came to rest on his knee, widening further as the younger student let his voice drop to something soft and low and almost indescribably sensual.  The auburn haired man teased Neil lightly about his commonplace conversational topics, and... wait.  Was he suggesting that they bypass the more chaste portions of their courtship dance and move along to something a bit more physical?  A look into Mycroft's stormcloud blue eyes was all the confirmation he needed.  Neil gave a throaty, satisfied laugh and turned a warm but still desirous gaze on his companion.

"Mycroft Holmes, you shameless flirt!"  He teased the younger man in a light tone coupled with a dazzling grin, not wanting him to take offense.  Quite the opposite.  Anything he could do to encourage things to head in that direction was a welcome addition to their little give and take.

"Well, I fear we've run out of conversational topics rather quickly then, haven't we?"  The older blonde let his eyes wander appreciatively over Mycroft's well-suited torso, licking his lips just a little at the juncture of gray waistcoat and red tie.  Something about the contrast was very delicious.  A bit like Mycroft himself.  A largely unremarkable and practical outer demeanor, but a nice flash of passion running just underneath the surface.  Available to anyone that was bold enough to just undo those buttons and snatch it.

His metaphor seemed like an excellent idea, but despite the younger man's initiation it seemed a little bold to just lean forward and start undressing him.  Instead, Neil leaned forward and stroked his thumb down the visible stripe of red before placing his hands on each of Mycroft's shoulders, gently stroking the side of his throat with one thumb.

"Only if that's what you really want, Mycroft.  I'll admit, I'm absolutely mad for you.  I can't help it; you're gorgeous.  And what's worse, you don't even know it.  I want nothing more than to offer you physical, tangible proof of how exquisite you are.  But only if that really is what you want.  It may be difficult for me at times, as I'm not used to taking things slow.  But you're worth it.  Your comfort means more to me than my unfortunately hair-triggered libido.  So as long as you're willing to be patient with me, I'm willing to give you all the time you need, whether that's a few more minutes or a few more months."  The lie came easily, though Neil knew he'd likely go insane if he had to wait that long for anything he wanted.  The reverse psychology of the tactic had worked wonders in the past though; telling someone that you were willing to draw things out always seemed to make them all the more desperate for affection even if they were the ones who initiated the slowing of the courtship process in the first place.

"But god help me Mycroft, if you want to lay here on this couch all night and kiss, I'd do it.  I'd go exactly as far as you let me and though it might be a bit of a strain on my libido I'd never step a hair over that line.  So please," he whispered, bringing his mouth close to the younger student's.  "Tell me what you want and be very, very specific.  And in return I'll make sure that each of your desires are met whether they be chaste, vulgar, or anything at all in between."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_"Tell me what you want and be very, very specific.  And in return I'll make sure that each of your desires are met whether they be chaste, vulgar, or anything at all in between."_

Mycroft shivered slightly as soon as those words left Neil's mouth, the implication in them not lost in him. He was slightly out of his depth here, what with Neil and his laundry list of lovers, but Neil's insistence that they could take things slowly--while making thinly veiled references to the fact that that would be extremely difficult for him--only firmed his resolve. It was obvious to him that Neil was only so heavily insisting he was comfortable with it because it was another way for him to charm Mycroft, another way to show him how understanding and caring and wonderful he was. But that wasn't the real Neil.

Oh no, not in the slightest. Mycroft had already gotten glimpses of the hunger lurking underneath Neil's put-together exterior, though Neil did an excellent job of hiding it usually, and he knew that the older man wanted him. Badly, it seemed, though Mycroft couldn't fathom why and the explanations that Neil gave him only made him blush. Gorgeous? Him? No, definitely not. But if Neil wanted to believe that, Mycroft certainly wasn't going to try to dissuade him. And with Neil's lips just millimeters away like that, breath ghosting over Mycroft's own lips, Mycroft was having enough trouble forming coherent thoughts without the added difficulty of trying to balance his insecurities with his observation of Neil. Best to just give in to temptation instead.

And he did, surging forward to kiss Neil, closing the almost nonexistent distance between them with a heated kiss that he quickly turned deeper, tongue darting along Neil's bottom lip until the blonde man opened his mouth obligingly and Mycroft was free to explore at his leisure, languidly licking along the inside of Neil's mouth in a way that was half sensual half exploratory, memorizing every inch of the older man that he could. He only pulled away when he was sure that he'd gotten every inch sufficiently and had Neil worked up to the point that he would most likely stop asking him if he was sure about this. Because Mycroft was sure about this, and he knew Neil had been sure about it for awhile.

"I want whatever you want," Mycroft said, which was mostly true. Really what he wanted was the other man's approval and affection, and if that meant molding himself to Neil's desires, well, that was alright. He was an adult, with complete control of his own faculties, and completely capable of making his own decisions. He knew what he wanted, and to demonstrate that point, he darted in for another quick kiss before pulling away to smile at Neil, slightly flushed. "So what do you want?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Mycroft forcefully brought his lips to Neil's he gave a surprised blink before falling immediately into the familiar motions.  The younger student kissed him with an odd sort of fervor; replacing the desperation that so many of his peers would have used with a smoldering playfulness as his tongue flickered across every surface.  Each playfully teasing glide only served to feed the older blonde's fervor, and by the time Mycroft pulled away Neil was positively aching for more and instantly regretting his promise to go as slow as his younger companion was comfortable with.  

_"So what do you want?''_  It was unlikely that Mycroft Holmes had ever spoken a more dangerous combination of five words in his life.  Each syllable hung heavy in the air between them, and Neil took a slight step backwards to appraise the veritable feast that had been so willingly laid out before him.  The delicate arch of his high cheekbone contrasted by the harder line of his jaw.  The warm ivory of his throat that was perfectly complimented by the crisp white of his button down.  The dark charcoal waistcoat.  The splash of red from the tie.  Neil drank it all in eagerly; mind racing to try and focus on particular point to start with.  There seemed to be no good place to settle for a starting point; from the very tip of his slightly flushed nose to the toes of his impeccable shoes, there wasn't a single part of Mycroft that Neil didn't want.  Finally, the older blonde's fingers decided for him.  One hand wound itself around the younger man's slim waist, pulling their torsos flush once again.  His other hand wrapped around the back of Mycroft's head, molding itself to the gentle curve at the meeting of spine and skull.  

"What I want?"  His voice was low and breathy, a tone he knew drove his previous partners quite mad as he tugged Mycroft close to him, their lips barely touching.  "I want this," he purred, bringing their mouths together in a crush of lips and tongue.  He thrust deeply with ravaging force into the heat of the younger man's mouth before withdrawing once again, gracing the younger man with almost affectionate licks along the soft line of his pink, parted lips.

"And this," he continued, kissing his way down Mycroft's jaw, nipping lightly when he reached the soft, sensitive skin between the ear and jaw.  While his free hand slid between them and tanned fingers working at the suddenly offensive red tie at the base of the other student's throat, he affectionately lathed the younger man's earlobe between his tongue and teeth.  A few dexterous twists of his fingers and one good tug later, and the crimson length of silk that had previously denied him access slid to the floor and Neil moved on to loosening the collar buttons, giving a satisfied grin when he finally exposed the long, pale length of Mycroft's neck.

"This," he murmured, pressing his lips against the hollow just beneath the younger man's adam's apple.  The answering shudder that wracked the younger man's body was beyond exquisite.  Intrigued, Neil continued to push forward.  If a good, passionate snog was enough to freeze the quicksilver mind of Mycroft Holmes, then Neil decided to fully devote himself to putting the younger man in a state of complete sensory overload.   

"I want this," he growled out between nips at the sensitive ivory flesh of his throat, while raking his nails down Mycroft's still clothed back.  The responding full body arch Mycroft made was lovely, accenting his unfortunately still-clothed chest.  Tanned fingers slid between them and began to work loose the buttons on his lovely grey waistcoat, Neil's teeth nipping at the younger student's lips with each successful release.  When it was open he let it hang from Mycroft's well sculpted shoulders and ran his hands underneath the gray fabric to ghost over the pronounced curvature of his ribs.

"I hope I've been abundantly clear when I say I want you.   **All** of you.  Every brilliant thought, every lonely feeling, every lovely smile, every sad gaze, every inch of your skin; I want you.   **Now**."  The older blonde growled the last word possessively, so as to leave no doubt in his auburn haired companion's mind exactly how desirous he was.

_I want to strip you down and see you flayed beneath me; I want to hold your warm heart in my hand and squeeze just to see how much you can take.  The need I have to mark every inch of your skin as my own is a powerful ache, and I'm going to punish you horribly for making me feel it.  I'm going to take you apart, muscle by muscle and thought by thought, and then I'm going to put you back together again just to see if I can.  But for now, because it's likely your first time, I'm going to be as gentle as I possibly can be.  We'll build slowly to the rest, you and I. I'll strip away your soul piece by piece, and you won't even recognize that I own you completely until it's too late._

The words echoed through his head, a sort of obscene poetry that he hadn't ever felt before when pursuing his prey. Most people were dull, doe eyed creatures, easily led to the 'slaughter'.  Mycroft was more akin to a fox, cleverly going to ground when necessary.  Something about the challenge he presented made Neil want to jam his fingers into the soft tissues of Mycroft's brain and twist, just to see what made him tick.  Still, it was far to try.  But soon, so soon.  To satisfy himself in the moment, the blonde brought one broad hand up to the back of his auburn-haired head, tangling his fingers in the silken strands and giving a gentle but firm tug backwards before he pressed another all-consuming kiss against his companion's mouth.  The way the younger man arched his back and moaned was sinful.  

"One final chance, Mycroft," he breathed, panting with the effort of keeping his true thoughts inside and his hands to himself for a moment.  " I positively burn for you,  If you want me to set you aflame too, I gladly will.  I'm elated, more than elated really, at the prospect of being with you.  But for the love of anything holy, Mycroft.  Be sure.  You can sleep in my bed, and I can stay on the couch tonight if necessary.  But pull back now because in a few minutes I'm going to be so completely drunk on you I don't know if I'll be able to easily stop.  I can't help it," he whispered against the soft curvature of the younger man's ear.  "You move beautifully and you taste so. fucking. good."

~~~~~~~~~~

His brain started to shut down as soon as Neil was on him again, lips and hands moving from one place to another before he even had a chance to adjust to them, each movement bringing out shivers and shudders and arches in his back that Mycroft wasn't consciously aware of making. Usually he was in control, completely, painfully in control of himself, but in this moment, with Neil whispering such sinful things to him and doing things with his lips and hands that should have been illegal, he was losing control and loving every second of it.

Half of his clothing was off before he even realized what Neil was doing, the red tie on the floor and the charcoal vest undone, Neil's hands feeling every inch of him he could reach, his lips brooking no argument from Mycroft. The possessive growl that Neil's mouth made the word 'now' twist into made something hot and desperate curl down Mycroft's spine into his stomach, the sincere amount of want, need, and possessiveness in Neil's voice astounding him. He'd never had someone want him that badly, and by god did it feel good. It made him feel wanted and needed, the desperation clear in Neil's voice as he continued.

"But pull back now because in a few minutes I'm going to be so completely drunk on you I don't know if I'll be able to easily stop.  I can't help it.You move beautifully and you taste so. fucking. good."

And just like that, Mycroft's mind was made up, all of his reservations going out the window with, well, any sense of reserve he had at all. He needed Neil now, as much as Neil needed him, and he was ready to give up and give in because god did this man want him in the worst way. His brain was shutting off anyway because of Neil's ministrations, mind going blank in a lovely way that he never got to experience because his brain never shut up for even one goddamn minute. But now there was just lovely white noise, a quiet hum that allowed him to focus on the sensations Neil was producing and the way the words coming out of Neil's mouth made him feel. Yes, he was sure. He certainly wanted to sleep in Neil's bed tonight, but he didn't want to sleep there alone.

"Yes," he said, and was surprised at how breathily he said it, his lungs apparently deciding he didn't need oxygen in this situation, not with the things Neil was doing to him. "Yes, yes, yes, god yes." Neil's breath was against his ear and it was making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to behave himself and get these words out because he needed Neil to understand that he wasn't going back on this, not now. "I'm sure, Neil, and I'm not going to pull back, not now, not in a few minutes, not at all." He leaned forward to lay a soft, almost sweet kiss on the curve of Neil's jaw, his own hesitation borne out of inexperience showing through. Well, not hesitation, really. A type of shyness. "So take me to your bedroom, and show me what you want."

No, he was definitely sure about this as he followed Neil to his bedroom, his fingers linked slightly with the older man's. As much as the situation called nervous butterflies into his stomach, it also bore a heady excitement, an intoxication that came with the way Neil could so efficiently and effectively shut his brain off with just his body. If Neil could already do this much to Mycroft with this little contact, what could he do if Mycroft gave himself over completely? Given the chance, could Neil entirely shut his brain off and give him the sense of relief he was looking for? Either way, Mycroft was still going to benefit from this. Neil made him feel amazing, and he'd never been exposed to this much desire and affection before. It was enticing, intoxicating, and made him never want to leave Neil's side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft's delicate, almost hesitant kiss to Neil's jaw broke down any remaining self control that Neil Gibson had.  Fortunately, the younger man made the first post-kiss move; loosely twining his long fingers with Neil's.  It made it easier for the older blonde to gently lead Mycroft down the hallway to his bedroom instead of dragging him along with the full force of the urgency he felt.  There was an unmistakable shyness in the younger man's body language, accented by the rose-tinted blush still gracing the apples of his cheeks.  

There was something so intoxicating about breaking in an inexperienced lover.  The raw power of it was enough to make Neil impossibly hard and almost giddy.  Sexually, Mycroft appeared to be a blank slate.  He had been perfectly reciprocal of the older student's advances, but hadn't really shown off any overt degree of knowledge or skill of his own.  Every single sensation, every technique would be new to him, something that he'd only experienced at Neil's hand.  It was yet another hook in the boy's psyche.  After all, the old adage was true; nobody ever forgets their first.  And the way that Mycroft was unconsciously responding to each touch, melding into Neil as if they were made to be fitted together in this way...  it seemed that there was a wealth of sensuality in the younger man that had remained untapped so far.  The idea of working Mycroft with teeth and tongue until that unrecognized wantonness overflowed and completely overrode his thought processes sounded more appealing than ever.  In fact, with the soft, appreciative moans that the younger man was making, it was almost hard to believe that no one had ever done so before.

Well, Neil was going to fuck him until there wasn't any room left in that amazing brain of his.  Until the only word that those perfect lips could say was his name.  How easy would it be, Neil mused as he pulled Mycroft in for another heated kiss while he maneuvered them both to the edge of his mattress, to eventually train all Mycroft's sexual responses?  To bend the other man in a way that he responded to Neil only in the ways that Neil found appealing?  It was an enticing thought.  A bit early for that, but it added yet another layer of entertainment to their already complicated network of interactions.  Still, taking complete charge of his sexuality was yet another way for Neil to **own** Mycroft, and the thought sent a heated spiral of pleasure unfurling along his spine.

_Beautiful little genius, I'm going to have you completely addicted to me.  The things I'm going to make you feel... you'll never get enough of them._

"I'm so glad you trust me like this," he murmured against the curvature of Mycroft's ear, laughing slightly as he tugged the younger man downwards onto the mattress.  They were slightly out of breath and off balance, and they tumbled down together in a mess of limbs.  Neil came out on top, having maneuvered Mycroft beneath him.  He straddled the younger man's waist, smiling as the younger man panted and gave a small but desperate wriggle before stilling.  Instead of reacting and pushing back against Mycroft (no, that had to be built up to, no sense in going right to the main show) Neil pushed Mycroft's already opened vest to his sides and let his fingers trail over the buttons of his shirt.  Dexterous fingers flicked each of them open, and he smiled a bit at the soft "oh" that escaped his pinned partner when each closure came undone.

"That you trust me with all of this," he purred, running his fingertips down the now bare skin of Mycroft's chest.  Not just your body, pet.  Your heart.  Your mind.  Let me show you how much I appreciate that."  His voice had dropped to a low growl as he lowered his lips to trace along the elegant curvature of the younger man's collarbone.  The older student basked in every shudder, every gasp as he mouthed his way down the pale expanse of ivory skin.  If they hadn't been so very genuine, the noises the younger man made would have been absolutely pornographic.  Poor sweet Mycroft was almost unbearably sensitive.  With a wicked grin and a bit of a wink, he teasingly tugged at the edge of Mycroft's waistband with his teeth.  It was going to be a very long night for both of them, and Neil planned on drawing out every heated moment for as long as possible.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Neil's experience was obvious as soon as they reached the bedroom, displayed in larger force than it had been when they were just fooling around on the couch. The older man managed to lead him to the bed while continuing to kiss him, their bodies pressed as close together as humanly possible before they fell to the bed and Neil nearly effortlessly maneuvered himself to sit astride Mycroft's waist. The position of being trapped underneath Neil like this made Mycroft temporarily panic, body giving a desperate wiggle in protest of being at someone else's mercy before he forced himself to relax, stilling once again as he calmed and submitted to Neil.

This appeared to be the right choice, as Neil continued to talk about how glad he was that Mycroft trusted him before kissing along the now exposed plane of his chest, Mycroft's shirt having been deftly unbuttoned not moments before with a speed that was rather impressive. Now that Mycroft had opened the floodgates of Neil's lust--and his own--things were moving quickly enough to make his head spin, sounds of appreciation slipping out of his mouth before he had a chance to bite them back. He nearly lost it when Neil tugged at the waistband of his trousers with his teeth, giving him a lascivious wink that was full of promise and heat.

"O-of course I trust you," Mycroft said with some difficulty, his brain having trouble thinking at the moment, all of his thoughts moving at a sluggish pace aside from the thoughts of _oh god oh god oh god yes please let's move this along quickly because that feels so fucking good_. He realized that Neil was still wearing far too much clothing in comparison to what Mycroft was wearing and he pulled him up to try and divest him of some of it, unbuttoning his shirt with fingers that trembled with a combination of nerves and anticipation. He felt much better when he'd stripped Neil's shirt off of him, taking his own off as well with some assistance from Neil. Pressed close like this, chest to bare chest, his heart was pounding enough that he was sure Neil could feel it, close as he was.

"If I didn't trust you," he insisted, leaning up to lay a line of exploratory kisses along Neil's jaw, taking his time with each, "I wouldn't be here right now." He lay back on the bed again, looking up at Neil with eyes blown wide at the pupils with lust and yet still holding a large amount of honesty and, yes, trust. He was trusting Neil. He was trusting Neil right here, right now, with his entire mind, body, and heart, and he was doing it mostly blindly. He had no idea if Neil would stay true to his word, he had no idea what was going to happen after tonight, he had no idea if anything that was happening right now was going to go the way he wanted it to. But trusting Neil on this was better than the alternative of being alone. Anything was better than being alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The slight tremor in Mycroft's fingers as they worked at the buttons of his shirt could have been attributed to either anticipation or apprehension, and Neil found either option appealing in equal measure.  His partner positively thrummed with a nervous energy: excitement and the slightest hints of anxiety evident in his stormy blue eyes.  Once his shirt had been discarded, Mycroft pressed a painfully slow series of kisses along the line of his jaw.  It took no small amount of self control to simply let the younger man explore for a moment, especially because all Neil really wanted to do was slam the younger man down and fuck him into the mattress until he was begging for release.  It was too early for that, though.  A bit of sugar at the beginning always helped the more extreme pleasures Neil enjoyed go down easier when he finally decided to indulge himself.

As Mycroft leaned back down onto the bed and confessed his trust with shining blue eyes fixed on Neil, something hot and sharp coiled within him, coursing along his spine before breaking apart and tracing molten fingers down each one of his nerves.  There was lust in that sensation, certainly.  But there was also an element of challenge; some part of him wanted to push and push and _**push**_ until he found the line that Mycroft wouldn't let him cross, then bodily haul the young man across it anyway just to prove that he could.  The more he got to know the younger student the better opportunity he'd have for doing so; now was the perfect time for mutual exploration.  And to see exactly how much of that brilliant, amazing brain he could cause to shut down, to see how much of that refined, controlled manner he could get to dissolve under his hands.  Between his own skill and Mycroft's level of sensitivity it was certain to be quite the show.

Neil sat back up, allowing himself to lean over Mycroft while he reached to his bedside table and rummaged in a drawer. The slightest quirk of an auburn eyebrow as the only response he received, and he simply palmed the condom and lube he collected, opting instead to nuzzle at the side of Mycroft's neck.  He smelled a bit like the scotch they had been drinking, along with the cleaner scents of linen and a touch of leather.  A bit like old books, really.  The older blonde licked a long stripe down Mycroft's jugular, nipping lightly when he reached the juncture of broad shoulder and elegant neck.

"Just gathering a few supplies," he explained, once again moving himself down Mycroft's torso.  His lips played havoc over the miles of exposed ivory skin; pausing every so often to lavish a particular patch of freckles or the elegant curvature of a rib with hot, open mouthed kisses.  Neil worked his way back down Mycroft's abdomen, kissing every inch of skin he could reach while raking his immaculately manicured nails down the younger man's sides.  His lean frame jumped and shuddered under the contact, and Neil gave a wicked smile against the soft skin just below the younger man's bellybutton as he repeated the action.  It was difficult to tell if Mycroft was ticklish or just overwhelmed by sensation, but no matter what the cause the reaction was beautiful.  He let one broad hand continue to scratch light trails over the rest of Mycroft's torso while the other deftly worked at the closure of his trousers.  Once button and zip were undone, he slid his hand underneath the soft fabric of his pants, bringing the other down to rest on Mycroft's hip, steadying him.  Neil kept the younger man's length in a firm grasp, appreciating the warmth and weight of it as he gave a few languid movements of his wrist.  The younger man choked back a cry, perhaps of astonishment, perhaps of pleasure.  Still, it was strangled by his attempt to keep it in, and Neil gave the heated flesh in his hand a gentle yet admonishing squeeze.

"Oh no, pet.  I want you to be as loud as you feel like being.  This is a nice old building; the walls are quite thick.  Let me hear you, Mycroft."  When the first of what Neil hoped to be several moans escaped the younger man's lips he resumed stroking him; each slow pull bringing another shudder from his companion.  

"Be sure to let me know when you're close, though.  I have much, much better plans for us tonight than a simple handjob.  I just want to take the time to get to know every inch of you.  To watch you when you writhe like this.  To see how your lips look when you gasp like this," he punctuated the last words with a stronger, quicker series of strokes before returning to his previous, maddeningly slow pace.  "Now c'mon pet.  Sing for me.  Let me **hear** what you like instead of just feeling it.  I promise, there's quite the reward waiting for you at the end of all this."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was fighting a losing battle for Mycroft, as he tried to tamp down his reactions to Neil. Every touch from the older man induced a shudder, or a pant, or a half choked cry, and by the time he was shuddering underneath Neil as the other man raked his nails down his sides, he wasn't sure why he was trying to stop himself anymore. Pride, perhaps. A last ditch effort to maintain some of his composure even though there was little composure to maintain when he was currently half naked in Neil's bed, hot and bothered and flushed, with track marks from Neil's nails appearing on his ribs as an unmistakable sign that the older student had been there. Mycroft had always had delicate skin that was easily marked, but he'd never seen it as a way to wear evidence of a tryst.

Or of ownership, which was more what it felt like. Like Neil was marking him as his own, starting out with more gentle marks that would fade easily before he moved onto more serious things. Mycroft wasn't sure where the thought had come from but it seemed to fit, and he half expected Neil to lean down and bite him when instead he undid his trousers and reached in to take hold of Mycroft's length, Mycroft biting back a cry of mixed surprise and pleasure. When Neil told him to, however, he gave up trying to fight the tide and moaned, and instantly that sinfully slow hand resumed its motions and Mycroft found himself out of control of his reactions. When Neil sped up his hand, Mycroft was gasping within seconds, a pressure building in his stomach that dissipated again when Neil's hand slowed once more, the older student taking his slow, wicked time to work Mycroft into a frenzy.

Neil wanted him to be vocal? Well, apparently that really wasn't a problem as Mycroft gasped and moaned beneath him, Neil's name occasionally coming out in a breathy gasp as he writhed on the bed beneath him, movements getting increasingly desperate the longer Neil stroked. Mycroft couldn't really stop himself from vocalizing his pleasure at this point; his brain had mostly shut itself off and he was drowning in a sea of sensation, a haze of pleasure descending in a pleasant fog over his thought processes. All too soon, however, he felt a tell-tale pressure building in his abdomen, his hips moving against Neil's hand of their own accord, and he remembered Neil's words.

"N-Neil," he managed to stutter out, voice breathy and a little flustered. He was so overly sensitive and worked over by Neil that he hadn't lasted nearly as long as he should have, embarrassment adding itself to the list of things causing his flush. There was something about the other man that just got to him, something in their chemistry that drove him slightly insane and affected him in a way that he hadn't yet experienced with anyone else. It was fascinating, and more than a little frightening.

He put his hands against Neil's chest to push him away in an effort to get him to stop, to understand that Mycroft needed a minute to get back down from the summit his body was steadily climbing. "I'm close, you--you have to stop," he panted, the words difficult  to get out because his body was very enthusiastically telling him that the last  thing he wanted was for this to stop right now. But Neil had promised him a much better reward for waiting, and Mycroft fully intended to get the most out of his night with Neil. And every other night with Neil, assuming this all went well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

At Mycroft's urging Neil pulled away, a cat-in-the-cream smile plastered across his face.  The younger student was unraveled and disheveled.  Shirt discarded, trousers open, normally pristine hair mussed and spread out around him like a disheveled ginger halo, blue eyes gone nearly black with lust when they could be seen behind the fluttering of his delicate lids.  The older blonde's satisfaction played itself across his features with a flash of white teeth, green eyes sparkling as he appreciated his handiwork playing over the torso of the man beneath him.  That normally pristine ivory chest was flushed with crimson from desire and long pink scratches from his nails, a thin sheen of sweat adding the final, perfect touch to the younger student's look of total debauchery.  Neil was very nearly ready to grab the lube and condom that he had procured when a thought struck him.  Normally he moved right into full-on sex.  But if Mycroft was this easy to tease and this responsive to every type of touch, perhaps waiting to fully consummate their relationship would be just as if not more fruitful than diving right in.

What if he simply made the younger man wait, and ask for it himself?  What would it be like to drive Mycroft a little bit mad, freely offering him everything but total consummation?  When the younger man did finally break down and ask Neil to take him the concession would be beautiful.  He throbbed at the idea of Mycroft acknowledging that he was giving himself over completely, offering himself up like some sort of delectable sacrifice.  Once the thought crossed his mind, Neil knew he wouldn't be satisfied with anything but.  Plus, it was likely to surprise the younger man that he wasn't going straight for the obvious target; and he did so love confusing and flustering Mycroft.  Decision made, he rocked back until he was upright with his weight settled on his knees.  Smiling down at his companion, Neil grasped onto one of his arms and one of his hips; grinning as he pulled a nearly-boneless Mycroft up with him so that the young man was splayed over his lap.

"Perhaps the first time **_really_** I fuck you, it will be like this," he whispered, raking the nails of one hand down Mycroft's spine before splaying his fingers in the small of his back, pulling him closer.  'I'd be able to see your face, every little expression you make."  Emerald green gazed into stormy blue eyes that had become unfocused and hazy, the slightly smaller man looking more intoxicated than he had been when they were actually drinking.  His lips parted to let in shuddering little breaths, each intake matched by a soft moan on the exhale.  In this position their cocks were so close, and with a shift of his hips and some maneuvering with his hand Neil lined them up, wrapping strong fingers around both lengths.  Wordlessly, he stopped rubbing soothing circles in the small of Mycroft's back with his free hand, instead using it to maneuver his long, lithe limbs.  Neil placed one of the pliant, elegant hands on his shoulder, while the other he moved so that it joined his own hand that encircled their lengths.  The answering shudder that wracked his partner's frame sent a heated pulse of electricity to run low through the blonde's abdomen and groin, and he bucked up a little into their shared grip.  He thought about grabbing the lube to ease things a bit, but their hands slid easily around the hardened flesh, passage eased by the almost surprising amount of fluid they had both already generated.

"It's just like dancing," he said with a smile, placing a single kiss at the base of Mycroft's pale throat before returning his hand to the dip of Mycroft's lower back where it resumed moving in reassuring circles.  Slowly, steadily, Neil began to move both his hand and his hips, enjoying the silken glide of the younger man's long digits and hot, velvety shaft against his own.  "Just follow my lead," he purred, green eyes locked onto slightly unfocused blue as he slowly but surely started to increase the tempo of his thrusts, building pressure and friction with each movement.  "Listen to the beat that pulses between us, and let your body move along.  Let yourself get lost in our music."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft was beyond the point of caring at the moment. Beyond actually might have been an understatement. He obediently let Neil pull him into his lap, straddling the older man with an ease and grace he barely knew he possessed. His brain was trying to stutter back to life, working on putting coherent thoughts out, and some part of him picked up on Neil's words, something sticking out about them sharply.

_"Perhaps the first time I_ **really** _fuck you..."_

Wait, what? Wasn't that what they were building to? Wasn't that what Neil was planning on? He'd been certain that when he was giving himself over to Neil, he was completely giving himself over. He'd fully expected the older student to go for the obvious, but now Neil was saying otherwise and wasn't taking any steps to fuck Mycroft. In fact, he was repositioning them both so he could grab hold of both of their lengths, taking a moment to move Mycroft's accommodating limbs into better positions. One hand ended up on Neil's shoulder, and when the other joined Neil's hand that was currently wrapped around the heated flesh between them, Mycroft's entire body gave a slight shudder, his brain stuttering to a stop again. It was hard to think about Neil's intentions when both of their hands and Neil's length were moving against Mycroft's own in a way that made him moan out Neil's name again.

Neil was taking the lead, which was good because Mycroft wasn't in control of his own limbs at the moment and probably would have fallen off of Neil's lap if not for his hand on Neil's shoulder and the older man's hand on the small of his back. The older man knew what to do with this, his experience obvious once again as he built the friction and movement between them, timing his hand and hips as he told Mycroft that this was just like dancing. Only dancing usually didn't leave Mycroft gasping for air and pressing his hips up quite so desperately. He was almost afraid to look away from Neil's eyes, the emerald gaze of the other man intense and focused enough to raise the hair on the back of Mycroft's neck, like he was taking Mycroft apart down to his soul with just his eyes. It was too much for him to keep his eyes on and his head dropped to the shoulder his hand was on as Neil continued to guide their movements, making Mycroft come undone almost languidly.

"Oh, please, Neil, please, please god, N-Neil--" He was hardly aware of what he was saying anymore, words falling out of his mouth haphazardly and landing on the bed, scattered around Neil as if the older man was the only one who could make sense of them at the moment. He was, actually, as he still seemed to be entirely in control of himself and the situation as Mycroft was falling apart. Mycroft managed to rouse himself a little, lifting his head from Neil's shoulder to press a line of open mouthed kisses down the other man's throat, occasionally throwing in a tentative nip that spoke of his inexperience and hesitation. If this was all Neil wanted from him right now, that was fine. This was more than Mycroft could even process or handle, he was starting to think he'd completely lose his mind if he went any farther with Neil.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The jolt that ran through Mycroft's body when he realized that Neil wasn't going to take things all the way was breathtaking.  Grey-blue eyes widened in surprise, a soft look of shock passing over the aristocratic features of his face that almost caused Neil to chuckle.  Yes, waiting had been the right choice.  And from the look of absolute bliss that replaced the shock when he began to work their hands together around the combined hardness of their shafts, it wasn't going to take all that much to have the auburn haired young man begging for the full act.

Then, he was canting those slender hips of his up into their shared grasp, breathlessly moaning Neil's name and clinging to his shoulder as if he were drowning.  Their eyes met, stormcloud blue against verdant green and the older blonde carefully cataloged every reaction the younger man was having.  The way his eyes dilated just a bit more when Neil increased his grasp and speed to the tiny whimpers of desperation that fell from his lovely, full lips as he once again slowed.  The older student could feel his own climax looming; the sheer heat and pressure of Mycroft's man's length next to his was nearly as good as most penetrative sex he had.  It must have been the genuine tone in his pleas; whispering Neil's name over and over, interspersing it with words like 'please' and 'god'.  Neil gave a contented growl deep in the back of his throat as Mycroft lavished the line of his throat with heated kisses, and he rewarded the other man with increased friction; tightening his grasp and both pumping and thrusting against him until there were nothing breathless gasps falling from the other man's throat.

"God yes," he groaned, unable to help himself as he thrust wantonly against Mycroft's hand and length.  "That's it love, yes.  Let yourself go."  To emphasize the point he gave his hand a slight twist on the upward stroke, making sure to run his thumb over the sensitive head of Mycroft's cock before pulling back again, giving a few more thrusts into their shared grip before repeating the motion.  He could feel every muscle in the younger man's body start to tense; his back, thighs and hands all very nearly trembling with the force of his imminent release.  Neil could very nearly feel the younger man's heartbeat in the palm of his hand, the shared pulse of their cocks dragging him right up to the edge of climax as well.

"Eyes on me.  I want to see you come undone.  I want to know what your face looks like in the moment of your release.  I want you to come for me, Mycroft," he growled, the words less a request and more like an order as he pressed his hand into the small of Mycroft's back, forcing them impossibly closer together.  "I want to feel you," he moaned softly into the shell of Mycroft's ear, smiling as he felt every muscle in the younger man go as taut as a bowstring.  Just a few more seconds, the throb of a  heartbeat and a release, and he'd be one step closer to owning Mycroft Holmes forever.

~~~~~~~~~~

A sort of thrill went through Mycroft as Neil positively ordered him to come, the command adding to the rising pressure coiling in his lower abdomen, winding itself up as tightly as it could. He'd never been ordered to climax before and there was something arousing in the concept, the feeling of being completely and totally under Neil's control, submitting to him to the nth degree. It felt good, in a way, and it made it hard for him to disobey. Not that he could, at the moment, since his body was telling him quite enthusiastically to obey, and obey now.

It took some effort to pull his head back enough to look into Neil's eyes once again, facing the older man as he'd been told to because Mycroft was at the point where he would listen to anything Neil said. His obedience was rewarded as Neil's expert hand increased its speed, his hips thrusting his length against Mycroft's in a way that made all of the air in Mycroft's lungs disappear, and all it took was a few more strokes and a twist of Neil's wrist in just the right way and Mycroft was tipping over the edge, his hand gripping Neil's shoulder as his eyes fell shut and his lips parted, hips continuing to thrust through his orgasm.

His release made the motions of their combined hands and Neil's hips easier and smoother, and it wasn't long until Neil joined him as well in the lovely post orgasmic haze that Mycroft was delighted to find was absolutely devoid of thought. His brain was entirely silent, his body slightly numb, and everything felt so goddamn wonderful that he was torn between never wanting to move again and wanting to do that again, immediately.

He settled for slumping against Neil, wrapping his arms around the other man's neck and burying his face in his shoulder, enjoying the peaceful closeness between them and the easy, affectionate contact. He knew they'd have to move soon, clean themselves up--and they were both going to sleep in this bed tonight, he'd entirely forgotten and the thought sent a little thrill running through him--and get some rest, but at the moment he was content to stay exactly where he was. God, that had been fantastic. Absolutely, completely amazing to the point that Mycroft's mind seemed to have quite literally blown a fuse. If that was that good, what would it be like when Neil took him entirely? The thought sent tremors radiating down his arms and legs, though that could also be from the release of all of the tension Neil had wound him up into. Oh, he never wanted this to end with Neil. Never.

~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft obediently raised his eyes to meet Neil's, cobalt blue almost completely consumed by the black of his pupils.  The look on his aristocratic face was nothing short of blissfully stunned; and the older blonde gave him a wolfish grin as he continued to work their combined grips until the auburn haired man atop him shuddered and stilled.  The feel of the younger man pulsing and emptying himself gave that perfect edge to Neil's own cresting pleasure, and after a few more strokes he followed suit.  He shuddered and groaned, barely conscious enough of his surroundings to give an appreciative smirk at the answering soft gasp that escaped Mycroft as his release spilled over long ivory fingers.  The younger man collapsed against him, his head falling naturally into the curve of Neil's neck and shoulder.

Aftershocks wracked the thin frame resting bonelessly atop his, and Neil allowed himself a very satisfied smile.  All that with just a bit of handplay.  And even better, Mycroft really seemed to respond quite well to being ordered about.  It made sense; for someone who was likely in control of every second of his life, it must certainly feel nice to let someone else take the reigns for once.  Lost in the post-orgasmic haze, his brain reeled with the sheer amount of possibility that the younger student's accommodating personality presented.  He had taken another step closer to full possession of Mycroft, and learned about that valuable little submissive streak in the process.  His hooks were in, and even Neil was surprised at how deeply they had managed to embed themselves in such a short amount of time.  

"C'mon pet.  Let's go have a wash and then get you to bed," he purred, turning his head to the side so he could nuzzle softly against the exposed side of the pale curve of Mycroft's neck.  "You'll need a good night's sleep if you're going to make it to class after what I plan on doing to you tomorrow morning."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg finds an unexpected ally in Anthea, and Neil ups the stakes in his 'game' with Mycroft.
> 
> Warnings: Angst, emotional blackmail, mentions of human trafficking, general psychopathy, manipulation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This chapter marks the return to our main storyline, picking back up right where we left off with Neil's dastardly ways and the conflict between Mycroft and Greg. A sincere thank you to everyone who's stuck with us so far, and we hope you continue to enjoy. <3 Cheshire and Mazi

_"I will not have you threaten anyone I am associated with. If you have me, you have me. There should be no need for petty threats at that point, and I won't stand for any. I may despise you with every fiber of my being, but I am loyal to a fault. You'll have my allegiance, and you shouldn't need anything further. Am I understood?"_

The older blonde carefully considered Mycroft’s extended hand before raising his eyes to the other man's face, watching carefully for any flicker of emotion across those fine features.  He saw nothing.  Frosty green matched arctic blue, each man's measured gaze returned to him by the other.  Neil let his pseudo-genial affectation fade away, regarding Mycroft with all the hardness and disdain that he truly felt, expecting the other man to back down just a bit in the face of such sheer, raw hate.  Instead, the politician mirrored nothing; empty eyes swallowing every expression that Neil threw at him but producing no reaction.  No uncertain flutter of eyelids, no fearful flaring of nostrils, no worried furrowing of brows. Nothing.  And perhaps, for the first time since Neil reviewed the CCTV footage of his lieutenant's botched assault outside that silly pub and recognized Mycroft as the man with the targeted DI, Neil began to wonder if perhaps he was making a mistake, backing Mycroft into a corner so thoroughly.  The thought made him flush with anger, heat rising to his cheeks.  No.  Mycroft Holmes didn't get the luxury of not feeling anything.  Not until Neil let him go numb, falling inward on himself.  Only with Neil's permission could the pain stop, and not a second before.  Perhaps the elegant politician needed a reminder of who exactly held the power here.

"Agreed.  But do note, Mikey, that the agreement doesn't take effect until you turn yourself over.  Until then, your darling brother is mine.  So please don't make the mistake of trying something clever to get yourself out of this, or I will be damn sure you and Sherlock both live just long enough to truly regret it.  You have forty eight hours, Mycroft.  Pray I don't get bored," he growled, voice low and threatening as he took the politician's hand in his own, firmly returning the proffered handshake.  Something about the frigidity in those blue eyes unnerved him, and the criminal bared his teeth like a predator backed into a corner.  "Pray, Mycroft.  Pray.  For your brother's sake.  And that battered little DI friend of yours as well.  Hospitals can be dangerous places, Mycroft.  Best to be quick about your work and turn yourself over before something untoward happens to either of them."

\-------------------------------

Greg had no idea how long he sat in stunned, miserable silence after Mycroft's departure.  It could have been mere minutes, or hours.  He kept trying to rearrange the pieces of information in his head to make a picture that would fit the handsome politician's sudden change in behavior, but he was missing too much to come up with a clear idea of what exactly had happened.  Still, it didn't stop the DI from combing through the scant bit of information he did have, trying to pick out anything he may have missed.  In fact, he was so absorbed with his own thoughts that he very nearly jumped out of his skin when his doctor announced her presence.

"Gregory Lestrade, pleasure to meet you.  I'm Dr. Caldwell.  I performed your surgery yesterday evening."  She smiled warmly at Greg's confused expression.  "Yes.  It's almost six in the morning, Detective.  Getting stabbed really takes up more time than most people expect.  How are you feeling?"

_Awful.  Miserable.  Lonely.  Confused.  Worried.  Frantic.  And none of it has to do with my injuries.  Thanks for asking._

"Well, I've felt better.  But that's hardly surprising, is it?"

"Not at all.  You were stabbed in the upper left quadrant of your abdomen, and sustained a grade II laceration to the spleen.  Fortunately the wound was not large or deep enough to require splenic embolization.  After your initial exploratory surgery to eliminate other damage to organs and the vascular system, I decided to recommend nonoperative management and observation recommended from here forward.  Basically what that means is that we'll hold you for three to five days, to keep an eye on you and make sure that the laceration doesn't continue to bleed or widen."

"As for your treatment, you did require a blood transfusion as the superficial laceration on your left side between your hip and your tenth rib bled quite a bit.  We closed that up  with a combination of butterfly and traditional sutures.  You'll have at least one follow up CT, and we'll be checking your hemoglobin levels every six hours until we can confirm that they've stabilized   After your discharge, I strongly recommend limited activity for the first week; with bed rest recommended for the first 48 hours.  Any and all high-risk and strenuous activities are to be avoided for three months.  Do you have any questions for me?"

The words washed over Greg.  He knew he should be paying more attention, but honestly his own physical state was the last thing on his mind.  His worry for Mycroft eclipsed his own troubles.  After all, Greg was in a hospital with a whole team of people watching over him and making sure he was safe and cared for.  What did Mycroft have?  It seemed silly to waste any concern on himself when his... friend... was in a much more uncertain situation.

"Ah, thanks but no.  I'll be sure to let you know if I do, though."  Dr. Caldwell greeted his answer with a professional smile.

"Right then.  Well if you need anything please feel free to use your call button and the nurses will assist you.  I think you have Bonnie today; she's great."  And with that, his doctor turned and strode out of his room, white coat swirling slightly around her.  Greg bit back a smile; the billowing coat reminded him a bit of Sherlock.   **Sherlock!**  God.  With Mycroft in some sort of trouble the younger Holmes would have been directly where Lestrade would have gone for help, but the consulting detective was caught up in this whole awful web just as surely as his older brother was.  Fuck.  Fuck!  Without either brother at his disposal, who could he call in for assistance? He couldn't afford to get anyone at the Yard involved, and while Donovan didn't hate Sherlock as much as she seemed to she certainly wouldn't be willing to stick out her neck to help him.  Not with the threat of a suspension or worse.  Greg couldn't blame her.  But who did that leave?  Lestrade didn't know of any family that Sherlock and Mycroft would have around, except for the vague and mysterious references to "Mummy", a figure that seemed to be a constant point of contention between them.  Surely Mycroft was close with some of the other patrons at the Diogenes club, but if he was the DI certainly didn't have any specific names to go by.

Then inspiration struck.  Amy, or Andi, or Anthy, or whatever her name was this week.  Mycroft's rather lovely PA.  In order to keep up with a Holmes, she had to be quite intelligent.  Greg only hoped that her relationship with her boss was friendly in addition to professional.  Surely she'd want to assist Greg in figuring out and remedying whatever awful situation the politician had found himself in.  Wincing as he twisted to get at his mobile, the silver haired man fought down a pang of panic.  If Anthea wouldn't help him, he was quite literally at a dead end.  For all the lives they had touched, people they had saved, for all the good they had done the Holmes brothers lived almost suffocatingly lonely lives.  The memory of Mycroft's hand interlaced with his own rushed through him, nearly causing a sensory overload.  God, all he wanted to do was pull the other man to him, reassure him that everything was going to be ok.  That no matter what he thought, as long as Gregory Lestrade was still standing, he'd never have to be alone again.

Hesitantly, he scrolled through his phone until he came up with Anthea's number.  Given how frequently Mycroft switched his numbers, the DI was a bit nervous that he wouldn't be able reach the sharp-minded PA.  But the number he currently had was only about a week old, so there was a chance that she'd still have it.  Quickly, he typed out text.

**Anthea.  It's Lestrade.  I can't say much now. But I think Mycroft is in serious trouble.  He's forbidden me to help him.  But he needs it.  I'm really, really worried that whatever is going on he can't get himself out of it on his own.  I'm in room G-240 at St. Bart's.  Meet me ASAP and I'll tell you what I know.**

Greg set his mobile down in his lap with a sigh and a prayer as he hit send.  His eyelids burned with fatigue but he refused to give in.  Not until he had Anthea's answer.  Not until he knew that at least someone, somewhere was doing something to protect Mycroft from whatever was going on.

\--------------------

Anthea was in the car on the way to the hospital when she got Greg's text, and for a moment she experienced utter confusion as to why the DI would be texting her and how he knew the situation. Then she remembered that he had been the one with Mycroft, out on what Mycroft would never tell her was a date but was still a date all the same. Though she maintained a completely professional relationship with her employer--right, because she hadn't been eavesdropping on the date at all before she went to bed that night, hoping that Mycroft stopped being an idiot and realized what was going on with Greg--she did, sometimes, allow herself to worry about the strained politician and his personal life. Greg had been good for him, Greg had saved his life, even, and now Greg was trying to help more.

Her slim brow furrowed as she reread Greg's message. **But I think Mycroft is in serious trouble.** First name basis, that was a good sign-- _now is not the time to think about their relationship, Anthea!_ \--and concern dripping from every word. Mycroft had been continually texting her since the phone call that roused her from her deep sleep, but he'd been silent for the past few minutes, and she quickly texted another member of the team to see what was going on. He'd stepped out for air. Mycroft didn't step out for air. Not if his little brother was in danger and he was working to solve it.

She quickly scrolled back up through the other updates from the team, stopping when she reached when Sherlock had been taken and slowly going back through each message to see if there was something important that she'd missed. There!

**Mr. Holmes informed of brother's disappearance. Reading letter addressed to him at time, flowers delivered to room. Mr. Holmes began giving directives...**

She skipped over the rest of the message, knowing she'd already found what she needed. Flowers were delivered with a letter in them. Slightly suspicious, considering the timing, but it would be mostly forgotten because of the intense search going on for Sherlock. Anyone who had suspicions about a ransom note of some kind being in Mycroft's possession wouldn't dare ask about it, and would probably actually forget to ask in the first place. The flowers could be from anyone. The letter could be anything. But then Mycroft decided to take some fresh air, and Anthea knew. She'd only ever seen him behave this way once before. After the accident.

Mycroft had never specifically told her what had happened, but it didn't really matter when he'd nearly died and she could tell the accident was staged and he insisted that he had the situation under control. There was only one person who could produce that much fear in Mycroft, though she didn't know how or why. She just knew the name, and the procedure if it was, indeed, who she thought it was. But if it was, Mycroft should have told her already. That meant that something else was preventing him--and considering Sherlock's disappearing act, she had an extremely good idea of what it was.

Anthea was paid to be Mycroft's PA for a lot of reasons. Sure, she fetched him coffee and took his messages and picked out ties for him, but her job went far beyond that. She was there when Mycroft was at his best, and when he was at his worst. She'd suffered along with him through an eating disorder that he tried to hide and had nearly killed him on more than one occasion, she had seen him crumble under the weight of Sherlock's drug addiction, and she'd seen him sacrifice everything he had to and more just to hold his world together by keeping Sherlock safe. Though Mycroft would never admit it, she had gotten much closer to him than anyone else he worked with, and she genuinely cared about him. So it was not only part of her job to keep Mycroft safe, but her own personal desire. An imperative, really.

**On my way.**

The text sent to Greg, she quickly composed another, much more important one to her employer.

**Tiger, tiger, burning bright**

**In the forests of the night,**

**What immortal hand or eye**

**Dare shape thy fearful symmetry?**

**-?**

It was a clear message. She felt like she spent half of her life in code, but this one was different. This one was extremely important, and she found herself nervously drumming her nails along her skirt edge as she waited for a reply. A few minutes later, she got one.

**I'm not in the mood for poetry, dear. -MH**

Neither of their agreed upon responses. He was avoiding answering, and so she had her answer. Of course, he knew he was going to tip her off with this, but that had been his intent. A subtle alert, keeping her from setting off all the alarms with the rest of his team. If he'd given her the attribution she was looking for, naming William Blake as the poet, she would have immediately started making arrangements for his safety. She'd have to talk to him more to figure out what he was planning so she knew what was going on. If there was one thing she hated, it was being left out of Mycroft's thought process. She was never quite sure what was going on in that head of his.

The team posted outside of Gregory Lestrade's room gave her little trouble, as she was the only one present besides Mycroft who had full clearance, and Mycroft still hadn't gotten back from his break for air, which was concerning enough in its own right. The second she crossed the threshold, the air around her seemed to change. It was heavier, suddenly, full of concern and dread and misery, and just _heavy_ , like a weight had settled on all of the occupants. And looking at Greg, it certainly seemed true.

Her personal contact with the DI was very limited, though she'd done more observing than Greg probably thought. Most of her observation had been limited to wondering when he and her employer were going to relieve their sexual tension, but she'd observed him as a person as well. He was a good man. Strong, unyielding, firmly set in his morals. And now he looked broken. The man in the hospital bed looked like he had been absolutely wrecked, and not by the knife wound in his gut. She had no idea what had happened, no idea what had made him this way aside from concern for Mycroft, but it was startling, and she nearly forgot to press her finger to her lips before he could speak. She picked up the vase of flowers in the room, carried it out and put it in the room of another patient, and then came back and sat down, crossing slim legs.

"Alright," she said, eyes on him for once instead of the screen of her mobile, all attention sharply focused on the task at hand. Mycroft always came first. "Now you can tell me everything you know, starting with that vase of flowers and the letter that came with it. I need to know everything Mycroft said and did, down to his expressions. I think I know what's going on."

\-----------------------

Mycroft let Neil's words wash over him, the sound muffled as if he was hearing them from a great distance away, just echoes from the back of some dark cave that could barely reach him. Neil was realizing exactly the forces that he was messing with, Mycroft could see it on his face. The drop of Neil's expression into the true darkness beneath didn't surprise him, and so it didn't startle him. Even Neil's threats had a muffled quality to them, like the man was laying them down much more softly, gently, than he was in reality.

It didn't matter what he said at the moment. Mycroft was focused, sharp and crystalline and drawn to a point, ready to strike the moment an opportunity presented itself. He had managed to completely detach himself from the situation, remove himself and carry on as if he and everyone else around him was just another data point to be processed and used at the appropriate time. He didn't feel angry. He didn't feel sad. He didn't feel anything at all.

So the thin-lipped smile that he gave Neil as he shook hands with him was truly terrifying. There was almost nothing human left in it, like it'd been cut out of a magazine and pasted onto his face, or like he was a robot programmed to imitate human emotions. Where Neil was feral, Mycroft was controlled. Cold. And he was going to freeze him to death, whether he had to sacrifice himself for it or not. Once Sherlock was safe, Neil was going to get a lot more than he bargained for from Mycroft Holmes, and Mycroft made sure to make that clear in his expression before he slipped back out of the car, shutting the door behind him as he headed towards the hospital.

His walk was even, calm, sure. Even after he opened his phone and saw the message from Anthea there, he kept himself composed and headed back in. Once inside, his IV reattached--it was more painful the second time than the first, probably because he'd ripped off some hair when removing the tape to take it out--he quickly texted back, knowing his equivocating response would be the silent alarm she needed. Then he headed back to his team to continue working, retaining his blank mask. He wasn't going to allow himself to feel until this was over, and Sherlock was safe.

\-------------------------

Lestrade could find no words strong enough to express the amount of relief that flooded his system when the sharply dressed brunette entered his hospital room.  With the brusque efficiency he had come to expect from Anthea after their few short meetings she disposed of the vase.   _Stupid, stupid mistake Greg!_  Of course there was something in the vase.  A microphone most likely.  

Stylish heels clicking rhythmically on the tile floor, the PA left the room and returned seconds later without the vase, settling next to Greg and firmly requesting that he tell her every last detail about Mycroft's reactions before he left.  Large brown eyes focused intently on his face, instead of taking notes on her ever present mobile, and Greg's throat tightened.  God.  For some reason, the small but impossible to ignore significance of Anthea not being completely engrossed with her mobile drove the gravity of the situation straight to Greg's already aching heart.

The DI grimaced as he pulled himself forward into a sitting position, shoulders slumping with fatigue.  He was bone tired, both emotionally and physically.  The wrung out feeling that soaked through to his very core lowered any remaining defenses that he had.  As such, the DI couldn't help the way his voice slightly hitched as he relayed his last conversation with Mycroft to Anthea.  The coldness of the politician's last words to him set his chest to aching.  And the hollowness in those blue eyes... his heart involuntarily convulsed.

_"I will not be coming back, Detective Lestrade."_  And it was true.  Mycroft was really gone, and here he was, rehashing the confusing and hurtful course of events with the man's PA.  The finality of the words scored deep gouges in what remained of the DI's tattered psyche.  Really, if it had only been breaking off their relations, Greg could have found a way to move past it.  Get through it.  But something in those steely blue eyes spoke of an even more terrible finality.  Mycroft had looked like a man resigned to walking to his death.

_"I'm afraid that our working relationship must be terminated due to the events of the night and I would expect you to honor my wishes in that regard."_  And despite Mycroft's express wishes, here Greg was running to the man's PA, still unable to let things go.  A sick feeling congealed in the pit of his stomach as he realized that his actions could have dire consequences for Mycroft.  Then again, his inaction could easily have the same effect.  Fuck!  This whole situation was impossible.  Lestrade took a deep breath, centering himself.  He closed his eyes as he focused, recalling the training he had at conducting interrogations.  The techniques had to be useful for answering questions as well as asking them, right?  

He focused, trying to clear his mind and regain a more accurate mental picture of the politician right before his departure.  It hurt, though.  Greg didn't want to remember the different expressions that Mycroft displayed.  Cold, icy indifference broken only by a deep, unyielding sadness, neither of which the DI could do anything about.

_"I won't come back because there is nothing to come back to. You have nothing to offer me and I have nothing to offer you. As such, it would be best if we no longer see each other."_  Oh, how Greg wished that he could be so noble as to say that the personal rejection was the least of his worries, but it stung.  Oh god, how it stung.  Things had been going so well.  He'd finally gotten to the root of his awkwardness around Mycroft, and instead of rebuffing his flirtations the other man had...

No.  It didn't matter.  Wasn't worth focusing on.  Whatever Mycroft was doing now was surely under duress because of Sherlock.  Though why his mystery antagonist would want him to say those things was beyond Greg.  Surely this was some political power ploy.  Greg was hardly an asset on a national scale, let alone of international importance.  Who could possibly care if he remained in contact with Mycroft Holmes?  Other than Mycroft himself.

_Goddamnit **no**!  This is not the time.  Push through it.  It's not any different than the physical pain.  Just keep going.  See this through.  Make sure that he's safe.  That they're both safe.  Even if Mycroft really doesn't want you to stay on as Sherlock's liaison to Scotland Yard, even if he really never wants to see you again his safety is still your number one priority._

"And, well.  That's everything," he concluded.  Lestrade scrubbed one tanned hand over his face, trying to wipe away some of the lingering fatigue, concern, and heartache.  "Anthea," Greg stared up at her with pleading brown eyes.  "What the hell is going on with Mycroft?  What can we do?  What can **I** do?"

\------------------------------

Mycroft's frigid smile upon exiting the vehicle troubled Neil more than the criminal wanted to admit.  After the initial delight he took in the younger man's discomfort and fear, he had been unprepared for the complete turnabout in the politician's disposition.  Something in those icy eyes and the hollow, empty smile did not bode well for the future of their little game.  In fact, the lack of response Mycroft displayed when Neil had threatened Sherlock was the most troubling of all.  If he couldn't count on the mere threat of danger to his baby brother to keep Mycroft in line, perhaps it was time to up the ante.

"Take us back to the warehouse in Brixton," he called up to the driver through the car intercom before turning to the man across from him supporting the limp-figured younger Holmes  "Tomas, I expect that fancy phone of yours has a camera?"  His smile sharpened once again when his taciturn bodyguard simply nodded.

"Fantastic.  Well.  Big brother didn't seem too frightened by our initial plan.  Perhaps he needs further convincing?  Time for the second stage, hmm?"  The criminal's tanned hand reached out between the seats to brush a lock of curly black hair from Sherlock's battered face.  "He can play cold all he wants, we both know that's not true don't we, Sherly.  No, give me a lever long enough and I can move the world.  Give me the leverage of Sherlock Holmes, and I can move the iceberg that is his brother Mycroft.  Let's go pet," he murmured as the raven haired young man stirred slightly under his touch.  "Big brother needs some help getting back in touch with his feelings."

It was frustrating.  Mycroft, not playing by the rules.  Being cold, composed, mechanical.  All the accusations that Neil enjoyed wielding against him as weapons, the frustrating man seemed to have turned into strengths.  Well, that would change.  Will he or nill he, Mycroft Holmes would break under the weight of his own badly neglected heart.

\------------------------

As Greg continued talking, Anthea found herself leaning forward towards him, elbows resting on her knees as her eyes softened at every word out of his mouth. It was just so heartbreaking. The words Mycroft had said, yes, the pain and sadness Greg described as well as the icy exterior Anthea knew was an effective defense mechanism, but mostly Greg's reaction. The man looked absolutely destroyed, falling further and further into hopelessness as he continued speaking. And the way his breath hitched throughout the conversation...

She was going to have Mycroft's head for this if it turned out she was wrong and he was just being an idiot. He had nearly broken Greg in two, it was obvious from the man's pained brown eyes and the slight waver in his voice. He was hurt, he was in pain, he was trying to believe any other possibility besides the one that meant that Mycroft had actually been serious. And yet, no matter what the truth was, he was still trying to help Mycroft. His own personal conflict over Mycroft's words was taking a backseat to his concern for the other man, and Anthea felt her heart melting at that. It didn't help when Greg leveled her with those warm, chocolate brown eyes and basically begged for help. She sighed slightly. Mycroft was going to owe her a bonus when this entire mess was solved.

The room fell into silence again and she dragged her manicured nails across her bottom lip for a moment as she thought. Shit. Everything Greg had said just confirmed what she'd already thought. If it had been anyone else, they wouldn't have attacked the same way. Political enemies would have gone after Sherlock, and nothing more. The personal, cruel touch of having Mycroft cut himself off from Greg? That could only be one person. And the separation was forced, that was obvious to Anthea. She knew Mycroft. She knew his expressions, his mannerisms, and yes, as much as the man might be loathe to admit it, his emotions. And though she hadn't seen what Greg was describing, she trusted the DI's description and it matched up to what she knew of Mycroft to a 't'.

"This is worse than I thought," was the first thing she said, voice soft and sincere as she tried to console Greg through tone alone. "I mean, I suspected, but you just confirmed it. Mycroft is currently being threatened by...well, to say archenemy would be cheesy." She flashed him a small smile. "But accurate. His name is Neil Gibson, and this isn't the first time he's tried to ruin Mycroft's life. If I'm right about this, though..." She sighed heavily, her eyes going to her mobile as it buzzed.

**Where are you? -MH**

So he'd been informed of her arrival. And now, of course, she was needed. He probably didn't know she'd put the pieces together yet,  but he already knew she knew about Neil. Sometimes she really wished Mycroft could be as blunt and direct as his brother, just so she wouldn't have to play these games with him. But then again, this was all a part of her paycheck, and she sighed a little as she texted Mycroft back.

**In Gregory Lestrade's room.**

She didn't receive an immediate response and she turned back to Greg again, brown eyes soft, but serious. "If I'm right about this, Mycroft is in very serious danger, and he's going to fight tooth and nail against any effort to save him. His only concern is going to be getting Sherlock back, no matter the cost." Her voice took on a grim edge. "He might not come back from this one, Detective. Not unless he's dragged away. I don't know exactly what Mr. Gibson wants with him, or what he's demanding from him at the moment, or how he's threatening Sherlock, but it doesn't really matter. Mycroft will do whatever he asks to protect Sherlock. And to protect you." She smiled slightly at him, lips a little wry. "You're very important to him, Detective, I know that. He doesn't let anyone get very close to him, but he let you in. He was forced to cut himself off from you, I know he was, and as soon as this mess is sorted out I'll be sure to get him to apologize for it, though I'm sure he's tearing himself up about it right now. For whatever reason, Mr. Gibson always attacks him personally as well as professionally."

"That, I must admit, is a story I don't know. I only know the name and the gravity of any situation involving it. The rest is Mycroft's story to tell, and he might take the whole story to his grave." She looked down at her lap as her phone buzzed again, another text, the one she was looking for. She quickly tapped out a response and then looked up at Greg again. "Mycroft's on his way."

\-----------

Despite Anthea's contact, she was nowhere to be found when Mycroft made his way back to his base of operations and he only had a second to spare to think about it before he was being bombarded again with news, requests, reports, things that had to be dealt with immediately. He gave further instructions that would lead to the destruction of the investigations against Neil, quickly and efficiently handing off the dismantling to various agents he knew could handle it as well as he himself could. That distraction aside, temporarily, he picked up his now lukewarm coffee, taking a few gulps before pulling out his mobile to text Anthea and ask her whereabouts. He needed her here.

Well, to be fair, he really needed everyone available here, but he didn't need anyone else in the same way he needed Anthea. She was smart, she was focused, and she'd pulled him back from the edge of many a dark cliff. She looked after him even when he pushed her away, and had become more than an employee to him. A friend, really. Someone close. She was part of the reason he'd had to specify to Neil that no one close to him was to be harmed, because if he limited it to Sherlock anyone could be hurt. She could be hurt. Or Greg. _Greg_. Mycroft felt his emotions slipping back through again and quickly shoved them back, though that was a difficult task when he received Anthea's reply.

**In Gregory Lestrade's room.**

Surely, the universe was playing some cruel joke on him tonight. Either that, or he had done something truly heinous in several past lives and was paying for it now. Why was she in Greg's room? She knew Mycroft wouldn't be there, she had constant updates as to his whereabouts. Something else had brought her there, then. The flowers, perhaps? Mycroft patted his pocket, just to be sure. He'd moved the letter from his suit jacket to the inside of his waistcoat, since he couldn't wear his jacket due to the sling. It was still there, still unread by anyone but himself. Didn't matter at this point. Anthea knew who was threatening him, and he was certain Greg had only clarified or solidified things for her. God. He was going to have a hard time getting out of this one now.

He let a few minutes lapse after reading the text, lost in his own thoughts and wrestling with a decision, and then he texted back, **Be there soon**. Even though Greg's room was the last place he wanted to be right now, even though he was pretty sure looking into the other man's face would make him crumble right now, even though he didn't think he could survive Anthea and Greg ganging up on him without actually explaining himself. Anthea was doing this on purpose, drawing him back to someone he'd hurt because she knew he hadn't wanted to, and so having him in Greg's room served a dual purpose. He could fix what he'd done earlier, and the two of them could work together to try to get an admission out of him, a concession, some vague inkling of what was going on. Unfortunately, he'd already resolved to handle this crisis on his own.

He steeled himself, taking his IV in his free hand, wishing he could take his coffee as well. He briefly considered sacrificing one for the other, decided against it, and set his shoulders in an even line as he started towards Greg's room, glancing briefly at the time. With any luck, he could get this whole mess wrapped up before Sherlock even had a second dose. It didn't matter if it meant sacrificing himself to Neil. He'd done it before, all those years ago, and he could do it again.

\-----------------

Greg couldn't decide if Anthea's rapt attention to every detail of his story made it easier or more difficult to recount the whole experience.  He would have thought it impossible for him to feel any more exhausted than he had been when she entered his room, but by the end of his retelling of events he was having trouble keeping his eyes open despite his immense drive to stay awake.  

The young woman's presence was comforting.  While Greg himself may not have been able to do anything, Anthea certainly could.  Her appearance was indicative of her willingness to help, perhaps her willingness to help despite Mycroft's self imposed isolation.  The concern for her boss was evident on her face as she studied the DI before offering her carefully measured answers.

Those answers were an odd mixture of comforting and terrifying.  On one hand, it bolstered Greg's flagging spirits to know that the most likely reason for Mycroft's coldness and rejection was because of duress, not because of any lack on the detective's part.  In fact, he was quite certain that he colored slightly when Anthea reassured him that not only was it a good sign that Mycroft had allowed him to get close in the first place, but the lovely PA also stated that he was very important to the politician as if it were a simple fact.  Not supposition, or hope, or wild speculative fantasy.  Perhaps she was just trying to help him hold it together by telling him what she thought he wanted to hear, but Greg doubted it.  No, Anthea whatever-her-last-name-was did not seem like the type to offer insincere platitudes.

But no matter how comforting Anthea's reassurances about Mycroft's feelings were, her concerns about his current situation were far more unnerving.  The DI listened closely as the lovely PA leaned forward, divulging the scant amount of information she had in a low, concerned manner.  The words ricocheted through Greg's head.  Archenemy.  Neil Gibson.  Personal attacks.  It seemed so hyperbolic and unlikely, until he considered Mycroft and his position, and the troubles that they had already experienced.  Assassination.  Kidnapping.  Human Trafficking.  Drug Syndicates.  Disappearances.  Emotional Blackmail.  Good lord...  It all seemed like a bad script from one of those daytime stories his mother was addicted to.  

_"He might not come back from this one, Detective."_ The words shocked him as surely as being plunged into a tub of ice water would have.  Greg felt something ferocious claw its way up from the hollowness in his chest, an anger he had long thought forgotten.  The way he felt when his Da attacked Danny, or his mom.  It was a dark, burning rage that set his hands and jaw to clenching.  No.  Absolutely not.  Mycroft had been through enough.  Sherlock had as well.  Fuck, Greg himself had been through enough.  No matter what, they  coming out of this whole fucked up situation on top.  Even if Greg had to give up his badge and personally shoot every person between him and the handsome politician to ensure it.

He was so blinded by his temporary flash of rage that Anthea's next words barely registered in his ears.  The dark, snarling thing inside him reluctantly retreated; backing up and settling in the cavern of his chest, ready to strike again at a moment's notice.

"W-what?  What do you mean Mycroft's on his way?  I thought.  Wait.  What?  Why?!"  Greg most assuredly did not sputter.  Or squeak.  "I can't... no, I mean I don't... Oh hell."  The exhausted DI allowed himself to slump back into his hospital bed, scrubbing his hand through disheveled silver hair before pinching the bridge of his nose in his well worn gesture of frustration.

"Right.  Ok then.  Well.  Anything else I should know before he gets here?  Like, oh, I don't know.  Suggestions on how to make him accept help?  If you think you can get the drop on him I think my cuffs are still in my jacket."

\----------------------

Anthea gave Greg a small, tired smile at his suggestion to handcuff Mycroft to something to prevent him from leaving. It'd be funnier if it wasn't almost a good idea. It was really sad that this wasn't the first time that she had considered handcuffing her employer to something just to keep him out of harm's way. Mycroft's bodyguards and expertly trained staff were excellent at keeping others from harming him, but they couldn't be responsible from preventing him from harming himself, whether accidentally or purposefully. Just one of the many things Anthea counted as part of her paycheck.

"While I appreciate the suggestion, I think cuffing him to something would do more harm than good. You've seen Sherlock escape from cuffs before, right? Mycroft taught him how to do that when they were bored as kids." She sighed a little, brown eyes shifting away towards the hospital wall. When things got difficult like this, the thought that always kept her going was her own mental picture of Mycroft and Sherlock as kids, Mycroft seven years older but still absolutely devoted to his brother, helping him play pirates or teaching him how to slip out of cuffs or just falling asleep with him on the couch after a particularly rough day. From what Mycroft had said of his childhood, Sherlock had been the center of it since he was born. And Mycroft didn't resent him for that, just accepted the responsibility and started carrying whatever he could for his brother, even as tensions arose between them in later years.

God, if they didn't fix this, get Sherlock back, Mycroft really was going to crumble. She looked back at Greg, all traces of levity gone from her expression. "I'm not sure if there is a way to convince him to accept help," she said, and her voice was soft, reserved at this. That thought was frighteningly true. She knew there was a rather great chance that Mycroft wouldn't tell them anything at all, would shove them both as far away as possible--Greg more so than her, because she still worked for him and it would take a catastrophe for him to fire her--and she would have to take steps that would make Mycroft hate her forever.

If Mycroft refused to cooperate, she would have to tell the security team that his well-being was under threat, and he would be put in absolute lockdown. Whatever threat was hanging over Sherlock would be carried out, because as much as the British government would love to say it cared about Sherlock Holmes's wellbeing, nothing was more important to them than Mycroft's safety. In a tug of war over the two brothers, they would always choose Mycroft, because he was more valuable to them. And if Mycroft lost Sherlock, there would no longer be any Mycroft Holmes. He would be gone. Destroyed. Torn apart. She couldn't bear to see him that way, the last thing she wanted to do was make that call. But she had to, if it came down to it, she would.

"In any given situation, he will choose Sherlock over himself. If Sherlock is safe, he won't care about his own wellbeing. So if he gives into the demands and Sherlock is recovered, at that point he might accept help. We have to convince him to let us help him plan for a rescue after Sherlock is safe." She sighed, the exhaustion from the events of the night and early morning showing on her face. Pretty under her makeup, and in pain. "The question, though, is how serious these demands are. If we let him go, we might not be able to get him back. But I don't know what else to do without raising an alarm. And if that happens, he will be put on lockdown and what will happen to Sherlock will happen to Sherlock, with nothing we can do about it. And that will destroy him."

She smiled at him again, tiredly, always tiredly, though the bitterness managed to keep out of her expression. "So, Inspector Lestrade, I'm not sure what we can do. What would you suggest? Aside from handcuffs, of course."

\---------------

Mycroft Holmes was a ghost, as far as the hospital's security cameras were concerned. They didn't even tremble as he walked by them, though all of the monitors for the hospital showed that he didn't exist. He was a ghost. As far as everyone else but his team was concerned, he was still sitting at the same table, doing the same work and occasionally drinking his coffee. Worry lining his face. In truth, he was fighting hard to tamp down the icy fury that currently had a stranglehold on his mind.

Fuck it, that was a losing battle. He was furious. It was misdirected, at least in part, from Neil, that was true. But some of it was justifiably directed at Anthea and Greg. He didn't like people plotting behind his back. Sure, it happened a lot, even within his own organization, but this was different. These were two people who he cared about, who were conspiring together over something that was going to bring Sherlock harm.

It was irrational to view it that way, part of his brain was telling him that quite calmly, but at the moment he didn't care. Anthea and Greg were the most serious threat to stopping him at the moment, and if he stopped, Sherlock was going to suffer, and then die. And it would be his fault, because he could have prevented it. It was a small price to pay, really. Dismantling his investigation into Neil's rather devious organization left a sour taste in his mouth, but the other part wasn't difficult. Sacrificing himself. He would have time for fear of Neil and fear of the past later, but right now he had to keep himself focused.

Anger was wonderful for that. Maybe that was why Sherlock was perpetually irritated with life. It was really hard to walk with purpose, though, when dragging an IV, and he briefly considered pulling it out again before deciding against it. Losing pain medication again would make him lose focus and concentration, and right now he needed all he could afford. Anger, concentration, and sharp focus. Good. This was all good, if it helped him focus on getting Sherlock back.

He paused a few feet from Greg's hospital room, hearing voices inside, Greg's deeper tones and Anthea's lighter notes. Spine straight, shoulders back, _focus Mycroft_ , and a few deep breaths. He waited until he heard Greg's voice stop, and then entered the room, drawing the eyes of both of the occupants. "Would either one of you," he said, his voice icy, "care to explain just what is going on?"

\------------------------------

Neil leaned across the divide between the leather car seats, and handed the camera phone back to Tomas with a wicked, self satisfied smile.  The pictures were the easy part.  Now was the bit that needed some finesse.  Tanned fingers tapped away at the screen of his own mobile as their car continued to sluggishly work through traffic.  Damnable morning rush hour.  Well, at least he had something fun and productive to do during their trip.

Green eyes sparkled with a truly malevolent light as he thumbed through the photos, putting them together just so.  A shot of Sherlock's long, pale neck, dusted at the sides with raven curls.  Another of his long fingered hands, laced together and placed over the slight hollow of his stomach.  Really, given his own difficulties in the area, Mycroft of all people should know to better look after his brother's eating habits.  After all, those unfortunate afflictions did seem to run in families.  

Another image captured the younger man's cupid bow mouth, lips slightly parted in what could be seduction or sleep.  A shot of pale skin running over the sharp angle of a hipbone followed.  The final shot of a mostly ivory shoulder, lurid purple and blue bruises highlighting how uncannily pale the young detective was.  Pity that he couldn't get one of Sherlock's eyes, Neil mused  That would certainly be a selling point.  Once he finished compiling the pictures, he turned his attention to composing a text to his darling, icy Mycroft.  Neil smiled to himself, reptilian and hungry.   _Yes.  Let's do see how much pressure our dear Mikey can take without snapping._  Quickly, he tapped out an e-mail to the elder Holmes brother.

**My Dearest Mycroft,**

**Pity, I was hoping to avoid this but you seemed so unaffected by your dear little brother's plight that I feared perhaps you had actually taken my advice and given up on the pretense of being able to love anything, even your precious sibling.  I wish I could say something clever like I'm testing the theory, but honestly it's all business.  I'm sure a man like you understands.  The last 24 hours have cut into my profits.  I'm just using all the available resources at my disposal to make some of the losses back.**

**In case you've forgotten, I have two separate side businesses.  You didn't seem all that impressed or worried about my use of the first, so I've decided to involve the second.  Tell me what you think, Mikey.  Am I underselling the product?  I do worry about that.  Your brother is quite pretty, but his battered face brings the asking price down somewhat.  Add in the unresponsiveness from the heroin and the six hour loan periods, I'm afraid that brings Sherlock's value down significantly.**

**Still, he's quite exotic, so I don't think we'll have any trouble getting him booked.  And your connection actually makes a great selling point!  Anyone in the political scene will likely be chomping at the bit to secure an appointment with dear Sherly, just to have a little blackmail material over you!   Personally I think the photos do a great job of really illustrating what people will be paying for without being too vulgar.**

**As always, your opinion is everything to me, so I've attached a few of the shots I've been using to entice buyers.  In fact, I've had three e-mail inquiries already, and his ad's only been up for about fifteen minutes!  But I didn't want to solidify any firm fiscal deals without consulting you first.  So what do you think Mikey?  60K for a six hour appointment?  That'll sync nicely with his medication schedule.**

**Do be a dear and don't keep the poor thing waiting for too long.  I fear the strain on his already delicate state may prove to be too much.**

**Gratefully yours,**

**A Concerned Friend**

The feeling that ran through Neil's system as he pressed the send button was beyond compare.  Just imagining the look on Mycroft's face as he reviewed the photos was enough to incite a warm fluttering in the pit of his stomach.  Thinking about those cold eyes watering from shock and disbelief before settling into panic.  It was a shame to waste such a good opportunity without actually being able to see the politician's horrified reaction, but at least Neil was familiar enough with Mycroft's expressions to come up with the perfect mental image.  Whether or not he did end up selling Sherlock, the criminal decided, it would at least have been worth it to plant the doubt in his brother's mind.  That would eat away at Mycroft long after all other injuries had faded.  It was brilliant. Neil was simply giving the "minor" government official the rope.  Mycroft himself would end up making the noose and hang himself with it.

\-------------------

Anthea's admission that there may not be much that could be done for Mycroft managed to push Greg's heart down back into his stomach.  No.  There had to be some other way than just letting Mycroft hand himself over to whatever arch-enemy-psychopath-stalker's devices.  Alone.  Unprotected.  While Greg would ordinarily have trusted the politician's instincts to keep him out of trouble, that all went out the window when Sherlock was involved.  Anthea was right.  Mycroft would absolutely make the sacrifice play to ensure his brother's continued safety.  But how could he even trust such a psycho to leave Sherlock be after Mycroft turned himself over?

"Christ, I don't know.  I want to help so badly, but I have no idea what to do.  This is so far above my pay grade that I wouldn't even know where to begin.  Other than sending me in with my gun, I don't know what to say.  I dunno, maybe we could let him go and follow him?  Provide support that even he won't know he has?"  Greg shook his head.  "No, that's way too juvenile.  He'd realize and ditch us.  No doubt about it.  Don't you keep a roomful of guys dressed in all black with rappelling equipment around for these occasions?"  Anthea's bland look let him know exactly what she thought of that suggestion.  Which was, judging by the state of her brows, very unimpressed.

"I get it.  It's Sherlock.  He'd do anything for him.  Hell, I'd do the same if our positions were reversed."  Greg settled into a pensive silence, trying to dredge up any plausible idea (and any number of implausible ideas as well) on how to proceed.  That was when Mycroft Holmes appeared in the doorway of his hospital room.  One look into those glacial blue eyes lowered the temperature in the room by several degrees.

_"Would either one of you care to explain just what is going on?"_

"Well, I don't rightly know Mycroft.  That's what **we** were trying to make sense of.  What do **you** think is going on here?   Or better yet, why don't you skip trying to analyze my and Anthea's conversations and start by providing some kind of explanation of your own, damnit."  The words were out of his throat before Greg could stop them, and the DI managed to suppress some of his anger, but not nearly enough.  And that was not good.  The last thing he wanted to do was fight with Mycroft.  Not when, despite the DI's deep frustrations, all he wanted to do was jump up out of his hospital bed and wrap his arms around the other man's elegant shoulders.  Unable to do so, Greg's shoulders slumped, having to settle for mere words to express what he wanted so badly to show Mycroft with soft touches of his lips and hands.

"Damnit man.  I am so bloody glad to see you,"  like Lestrade's previous statement, those words also fell from his lips completely unfiltered.  "No matter how fucking mad I am, I am so wholly and incredibly glad to see you."

\-------------------

Mycroft had been expecting Greg's anger. That, he could understand, could accept, could even safely say he deserved at the moment considering how he'd left things between them. What he hadn't been expecting were Greg's next words, and the jolt of pain that they sent through his chest. Even after everything he'd done, even though Greg had absolutely every right to rant and rave and scream at him, the DI was instead expressing how happy he was to see Mycroft, even if he was still angry.

Those words nearly brought him to his knees. He wanted nothing more than to fall down and beg for Greg's forgiveness, or better yet, crawl into the other man's arms for comfort and just spill the whole bloody story and what kind of truly awful mess he was in. He'd taken measures to make sure Neil couldn't access the security cameras and the flowers were gone from the room, so it was more than likely that he wouldn't see it now if Mycroft went back on his promise and gave in to the overwhelming pressure of Greg's caring. But he held himself back, not for Neil, but for himself. Because if he didn't make a clean break from this, it would become another thought to haunt him when he went to Neil, another mistake to personally torture himself with.

He breathed out, heavily, through his nose and remembered Anthea was in the room. It had been easy to forget about her when she was silent and he was entirely focused on Greg, every nerve in his body painfully aware of the throbbing feeling in his chest that stung more the longer he looked at Greg. So he turned his eyes away.

"Go take over my responsibilities for the time being, Anthea," he ordered his PA, and she left, closing the door behind her, though as soon as she was in the hallway she sent a quick text to Greg before heading back to command center.

**Greg: Don't be angry with him, be heartbroken. He can handle anger much better. I'm going to work on fixing this.**

As soon as her clicking heels were no longer audible, Mycroft turned back to Greg, found it too painful, and looked away again. "I don't have an explanation for you, at least not one you'll accept or that won't encourage more questions than answers. Sherlock's been kidnapped, and yes, I know by who. But it's none of your concern," he said, his voice softer than he'd meant it to be. All of his anger from just minutes ago was gone. He wanted to be angry with Greg, it would make things so much easier, but it was impossible when those brown eyes were locked on him and they just looked...hurt. "Once Sherlock is safe, Anthea can declare a state of emergency and the entire British government will lose its mind searching for me, but **only** when Sherlock is safe. That is why I will not allow either of you to stop me because this is the only way everyone makes it out alive."

His voice dropped a little, in both tone and volume. " **I will not lose him**. And I'll be fine if I do what Neil asks. He won't kill me, no, probably won't even physically harm me. His form of psychological warfare is something I have withstood before and will withstand again and it doesn't matter anyway as long Sherlock is safe," he said, voice rising in his last sentence and then falling again on the last word. He looked at Greg, blue eyes showing true emotion, for once, but unwavering in their resolve. "I won't let anything happen to either him or you."

The silence was broken by the chime of his mobile going off in the way that indicated he had an email, and under different circumstances he wouldn't have checked it, but he had to make sure Neil wasn't seeing this or didn't have any further demands. What he saw in his inbox, however, was much worse than either one of those things, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. Chair. He needed a chair.

He stumbled his way over to the nearest one, the one by Greg's bed, half tugging and half dragging his IV along with him, and crumbled into it, his mobile slipping to the floor as he covered his eyes with one hand, like he could wipe away the images he'd seen with just a touch. He was so close to crying, had been so close all day, that he nearly didn't notice when he felt the prickle of tears at the corner of closed eyelids, the need to cry scratching its way, irrevocably, inevitably, up his throat. His baby brother was going to be ruined, and it was all his fault. Neil couldn't know that Sherlock was a virgin, of course, that sex was just about the last thing in his mind, but the threat would have carried just as much weight were that not true. By god, he hoped that this was just some sick sort of power play and not actually true.

One, two, three breaths, and he picked up his phone to type a response, ignoring Greg entirely because this was his brother of all things and if Neil wanted him desperate it was working and Mycroft hated him for that. This was going to end, and now, because he wasn't going to have Sherlock even further ruined than he already was.

**Call it off. Immediately. My organization is already mostly through the process of entirely dismantling the investigations of your organization, and I don't need to be there to conduct the process. Let Sherlock go, now, and I will come to you and you can do whatever you wish with me. You don't want Sherlock, you want me, Neil, and I am yours as long as you let him go now. With no more damage to him than when I saw him in your car. Hurt him any further and I will not be so pliant when I see you next.**

**MH**


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which both friends and enemies are reunited, and everyone has a lot of guilty feelings (except the psychopath.)
> 
> Warnings: Kidnapping, mentions of human trafficking, mentions of drug use, emotional abuse, blackmail, unwelcome sexual advances, general psychopathy, and much angst.

" _Don't be angry with him, be heartbroken._ "  Anthea's words chimed into his phone, and Greg repressed a wince.  Like he had any other choice.  Not that he was heartbroken for himself, though there'd be plenty enough time for that when this crisis was over.  No, he was positively anguished for the politician himself.  Despite only having spent mere hours apart, Mycroft looked hollow and haggard.  Like something vital had been torn from him.  No, it would be impossible to be furious with this man.  

Lestrade listened carefully as Mycroft offered him barely more information than he had when he left earlier.  If the situation weren't so dire, Greg would have spared a moment to truly admire the subtlety of the politician's speech.  Talking, while still giving next to nothing away.  Sherlock was kidnapped.  That had been known to Greg before.  Mycroft admitted to knowing who had abducted his brother, but didn't offer any information as to who.  It was artful.  Despite Mycroft's reemergence, Greg didn't know anything more than he did when the man had disappeared just a few hours before.

That icy voice dropped to a softer, if sadder tone as he repeated his previous assertion that the situation was none of Greg's concern.  As if two of the people he cared most about weren't being immediately endangered by some obsessed psychopath from Mycroft's past.  As the politician continued to offer the DI reassurances that all of bloody Britain would be out looking for him as soon as Sherlock's safety was preserved, Greg could see weight of Mycroft's resignation bowing his broad shoulders.  As juvenile as the thought was, Lestrade couldn't help but think how completely fucking unfair it all was.  Sherlock had been doing so much better, Mycroft had been happy, and Greg hadn't felt so fucking alone.  And then, like some sort of evil maelstrom, Neil bloody Gibson arrived and everything just went to shit.

" _I won't let anything happen to either him or you_."  Mycroft's eyes locked onto his for the first time since the other man entered the room, and Greg almost wished they hadn't.  The man across from him was hardly the man that had icily left his room.  No, this was a man at the very end of his rope.  A desperate, scared, lonely man who was shoving all those emotions down and choking on them.  A man who, above anything else, was ferociously determined despite it all to protect the people he deemed important.  "either him or you." The end of the sentence finally hit Lestrade like a sledgehammer to the chest.

_Oh god.  Me.  This... Neil... threatened me?  Why would he do that?  How would he even know?  For fuck's sake we'd just had a first barely-date tonight!  How bent is this man, that he would be keeping tabs on Mycroft's life, stepping in and tearing everything to shreds on the off chance that Mycroft might actually be happy_?  It was frustrating, infuriating, terrifying, tragic, and altogether too fucking unfair for words.  Greg seethed with anger; the snarling, roiling beast in his chest tearing at him, demanding that Lestrade do something, anything to stop it all from happening.  To find this Neil Gibson and tear him into tiny, bloody shreds with his bare hands.  But for as angry as the entire situation made him, none of it at all was directed at the utterly bereft man standing before him.  

" ** _I will not lose him._** "  Mycroft clung to the statement like a dying man to a life raft.  Like it was the only thing left in the world that mattered.  Which, to Mycroft, it was.

No, any residual anger Greg would have felt towards the man (of which just a drop remained, even with Mycroft so obviously pained by everything) was held at bay by his PA's assurance that everything Mycroft did was to protect his brother.  Or at least Mycroft thought that's what he was doing.  Lestrade himself wasn't quite as certain; anyone cruel enough to kidnap Sherlock **and** demand that Mycroft systematically isolate himself from the people closest to him couldn't possibly be trusted to keep their end of the bargain once the politician was actually in their hands.

In fact, the DI was on the verge of opening his mouth to say something to that effect when the taller man's mobile chimed.  Probably a check-in from Anthea, confirming that she had taken up his assigned position at the head of the security team.  Greg expected Mycroft to tell him to mind his own business, to just forget that the previous evening had ever happened and take his leave.  Instead, the handsome man staggered forward like a marionette whose strings were cut, falling forward and collapsing into the bedside chair.  Long fingers went limp and his sleek black mobile clattered to the floor as Mycroft raised his hand to his eyes.  Skin already pale from blood loss became absolutely pallid, and Greg's heart caught in his throat as he watched Mycroft's shoulders tremble with each ragged breath.  As suddenly as he had dropped it, the politician scooped the mobile up off the hospital floor and furiously typed out a text before sagging back in the chair again.  Mycroft looked positively destroyed.  A scant step away from death.  What could possibly have...

_NO.  Oh god, Sherlock.  He's done something to Sherlock and I can't... Oh fuck oh fuck **ohfuck**... Please!  Please, any god that may be listening. Anyone.  Just let him be alive.  _

"Mycroft."  He tried to keep his voice calm, firm, reassuring.  Lestrade struggled and finally succeeded at pulling into a sitting position despite the protest of his burning side, bringing him close to the politician's side.  And to think that the last time that the now-desolate man had sat in that same chair they had been sharing soft kisses and hopes for the future.  It seemed like a lifetime ago.  Something that happened to two other people.  Some cruel dream, sweet at the time but cutting in its absence.  Not knowing what else to do, Greg extended his hand, closing it over Mycroft's trembling fingers.  Unthinkingly, he smoothed his own fingers across the back of the politician's hand, trying to do anything he could to soothe the distraught man.

"Mycroft please.  Tell me what happened.  Tell me what I can do.  Please.  I'll do anything I can.  Anything at all.  Anything for you, for Sherlock.  Please, just talk to me."  Greg knew he was begging.  It was what he had been reduced to.  Injured, heartbroken, watching one of his only friends (who had not so long ago held the potential to be so much more) coming unraveled as the man's carefully maintained life crashed down around him.  It was too much, to see it all and be able to do nothing.

Unthinking, he brushed his free hand across Mycroft's temple, tucking a wayward strand of auburn hair back behind the man's ear before using the pads of his fingers to wipe away a touch of moisture gathered at the corner of one stormy blue eye.  The gesture didn't even seem to register; the politician simply sat frozen in place, eyes unfocused and staring at some point far, far away in the distance.  Lestrade continued to run his fingers through the fine hair at the man's temple, trying his best to offer soothing words and gentle encouragement.

'Come on.  Please, Mycroft.  Come back to me."  The DI intoned the words like a prayer, a sacred chant, a hymn, a magic spell... repeating them over and over as he continued his gentle brush of fingers against the politician's temple.

\---------------------------------------

Neil grinned in the back of his towncar as he eyed the message from Mycroft for a third time.  Ever predictable, ever faithful, ever devoted Mycroft.  No matter how hard he tried to convince himself he was the frigid machine that Neil had always accused him of being, there was always something that betrayed the soft heart underneath the frozen armor.  Quickly, he tapped out his own reply.

**So glad to see you're back in the game, Mikey darling.  I was worried you had spent so long embracing your actual frigid nature that you had forgotten how to pretend to care, even about your brother.  I'll release Sherlock, and take down the ad.  The pictures, well... I'll keep those for now.  Insurance, let's say.  I'll turn over the original data to your team once you're in my company.**

**As for your brother, there's a particular alley he used to frequent not so long ago.  Just a few blocks from his old dealer's flat.  I'm sure you know the one; after all you had cameras installed.  Once you've arrived I'll have Tomas drop him off; your team can confirm with you via mobile and retrieve him.  Please don't have your team try anything clever; Tomas does have somewhat of a short temper and a bit of a taste for beating your brother, I'm afraid.  Lord knows what he'll do if your team tries to go after him, or if he hears that you haven't arrived.  And don't you worry about transportation.  I'll send a car.  Outside.  Three minutes.**

**Come along now Mikey.  We've got work to do.**

\---------------------------------------

Sherlock had a mind palace. Mycroft had filing cabinets. And currently they were all underwater. It was like being on the Titanic when it was sinking, each compartment rapidly flooding with water too fast while he scrambled to open and shut drawers, trying to find something that wasn't there. It didn't matter anyway because soon enough he was drowning, drowning in his own head surrounded by corroding cabinets and soggy paper and the images of Sherlock and the memories of the previous day and--

" _Come on. Please, Mycroft. Come back to me_."

The water stopped for a moment. He tried to swim to the surface and Neil Gibson pushed him down again. Neil's file cabinet, a locked box in a dark corner, painted pitch black to match his fucking heart had come open and the files were making the surface of the water dark and hard to breach. Mycroft wondered idly if it was possible to be killed by your own brain, already knew the answer to that question because it had nearly happened more than once.

" _Come back to me._ ”

“ _Come back to me_.”

“ _Come back to me._ ”

It was a struggle, and quite like actually swimming to the surface of some great ocean that was trying to drown him, but he managed to emerge slowly back into awareness to the feel of fingers combing through some of his hair and the sound of the words that had brought him back in the first place. He blinked a few times, his eyes feeling impossibly dry--he must have frozen with them open--and took a few seconds to catalogue things. His file cabinets were dripping water and all of the papers were nearly ruined, but he could still use them, albeit slowly, sluggishly.

There was a hand brushing through the hair at his temple. Another hand on top of his own, fingers brushing over the back of his own hand. Someone was repeating the same words over and over again like a blessing, a benediction. He was in a hospital room. He'd been shot. Sherlock. Neil. Greg. Of _course_ , his mind said, file cabinets sagging in relief, _you're in Gregory Lestrade's room_. His hands, his words, and now Mycroft lifted his head to meet his eyes, his blue ones still a little blank as they met Greg's warm brown ones. Only they weren't warm right now, just brimming with concern and what looked like relief now that Mycroft had recovered from his fit.

Well, he supposed it looked like a fit from the outside, and he couldn't blame Greg for his concern. It was hard to explain to people that his brain was organized into file cabinets and safes and that when bad things happened, the whole thing flooded because the parts of his brain that weren't organized into file cabinets and safes formed a vast, dark ocean, and the two were constantly at war. He'd only almost drowned in there a few times, but had recovered every time. Every time it happened, though, a little more water damage appeared in the other part, a few more stains that he couldn't scrub out. And it was getting harder and harder to swim to the surface again every time. If not for Greg, he wouldn't have made it out this time.

"I'm...I'm alright," he said a little dazedly. Out of everything he'd said today, that was probably the biggest lie he'd told. He was so far from alright that he couldn't honestly remember what that felt like. But Sherlock was going to be okay. Greg was going to be okay. Anthea was going to be okay. He just--he just had to give up himself in return. And that was alright. But the way Greg was looking at him told him that nothing about this entire situation was alright with Greg at all. God, he looked so hurt. On Mycroft's account. He'd really and truly fucked this up, hadn't he? Maybe if he hadn't tried to get away from Neil in the first place, all those years ago, he could have avoided this.

It took a few moments and deep breaths more before Mycroft could continue to speak, casting his eyes down to where Greg's hand was on his own instead of looking into those brown eyes that made him want to fall to pieces and give up on all of this. "I'm sorry, Gregory, but I have to do this. I'll be perfectly alright though, I've made it through in the past. Neil is...inventive, but he's an old enemy. A devil I know, and one that I can deal with. If I managed to break off our relationship after two years of struggle, I think I can manage to survive a little while in his custody."

His phone went off again and he closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath to steady himself. When he opened them again, he extracted his hand from under Greg's and read the latest message, the sick feeling of dread settling into his stomach and taking firm root there. Right. Of course Neil wasn't going to give him any time. He put the phone away again and turned to Greg, trying to express all of his regret with just his eyes. Judging from Greg's look, he'd succeeded. "I'm sorry. I have to go. This is it."

\---------------------------------------

After a few terrifying minutes of space, stillness, and overwhelming silence blue eyes finally raised to meet Greg's.  It was a struggle to stay calm and steady when all he wanted to do was... well.  He wasn't sure exactly what it was he wanted to do.  Wrap his arms around Mycroft and never, ever let him go?  Shake the man until he actually provided some serious answers as to what was going on, what could be so bad that it nearly shocked him into catatonia?  There were thousands upon thousands of variations on those two options, but Greg tried to hold himself firm.  No matter what he did next, it had to be for Mycroft's benefit, not for his own.  As badly as he wanted answers, reaffirmation that things would be ok, that Sherlock was alive and well, none of these things would help the shattered politician next to him put himself back together.  Before he could offer anything more than the nominal comfort he was already providing, though, Mycroft started to try to reassure Greg that he had to go; that his departure was necessary but that he would be fine.  That whoever this Neil was hadn't destroyed him before, and wouldn't be able to destroy him now.

The politician's voice was heavy with resignation, but soft all the same.  Still trying to reassure Greg even though he himself was the one that was slowly walking towards his inevitable doom.  Funny, Greg thought that the platitudes and assurances would have made him feel better, but they only left him hollow.  Perhaps it was because Mycroft looked as if he didn't believe those words himself.  The DI certainly didn't.  Mycroft's attacker was systematically tearing his life apart.  Hell, Greg had just seen how close the man had been able to push Mycroft to the edge without the two of them even being in the same room.  No; the assertions that Mycroft would make it through all this without being hurt were unbelievable to both of them.  Especially when Mycroft uttered the word "relationship" to describe his prior two-year encounter with Neil.  The thought made Lestrade's stomach lurch and goosebumps raise up on his forearms.  It was something that he'd never heard the other man say before and to be forced to hear it regarding Mycroft's mystery stalker was very nearly the final piece that brought the fragile house of cards that was Greg's remaining self control tumbling down.

When Mycroft's phone chimed and he pulled his pale, long fingered hand out from underneath Greg's the DI had to suppress a sick feeling of worry from escaping his stomach and running rampant over his entire body.  He finally lost his grip on the feeling when the beleaguered politician took three deep, steadying breaths before glancing at the door.  The fear coiled down Lestrade's ribs, snaked through his abdomen and settled deep into his bones while other wispy tendrils flowed upward, wrapping themselves tight around his throat.

God.  Whatever had happened to Sherlock, no matter how awful, Mycroft was still going to go through with his plan.  In a way it was good because it meant that the detective was still very much alive.  But Greg could find no solace in the thought.  All he could think about was Mycroft, and the deep ache he felt in his chest whenever he considered never seeing the man again.  Let alone the circumstances that were tearing them apart.  Years of experience in dealing with psychopaths gave the DI the distinct feeling that whatever had been done to Sherlock, Mycroft was going to receive much, much worse.

Mycroft's storm cloud blue eyes returned to meet Greg's gaze after he finished reading the message he had received.  " _I'm sorry. I have to go. This is it._ "  The finality of the words left the DI feeling cold inside.  It was like watching an accident he knew was going to happen, but was powerless to prevent.  The enormity of the remorse reflected in those heartbroken blue eyes sealed it.  No matter what, there was nothing Greg could do but make things just a little easier on the poor man.

“I understand."  It tore him apart to say the words, but they were true.  He did understand.  Mycroft couldn't stay Mycroft and not turn himself over to this deranged stalker of his.  Not while Sherlock was still in danger.  No matter what, it seemed Greg was fated to lose him.  His friend.  His crush.  His maybe-something-else.  Mycroft could stay and lose himself in a miasma of guilt, or he could leave and take his chances with Neil bloody Gibson.  At least with the latter option there was a chance that he'd survive.  Greg knew with a surety that he found terrifying that if Mycroft didn't go it would be worse that the politician possibly dying.  No, if he didn't give in and leave, Mycroft would essentially be as good as dead, his heart broken,  his brilliant mind in pieces as he struggled for the rest of his life to figure out what he could have done differently.  A prisoner in his own head, his guilt the warden.  

"You have to go.  I know you do.  But please, Mycroft.  Please.  No matter what happens, stay together for me, yeah?  We're going to find a way to get you out of this, to get you away from him.  I swear.  So... just..."  he swallowed thickly, voice roughened by the indescribable sea of emotion raging through him.  "Don't give up.  I'm going to be here, counting on you to stay intact.  So that when we send people to get you out, you'll still be there."  Greg gave one final brush of his hand through Mycroft's hair, letting the short, silken strands run through his fingers before pulling back,  brown eyes locked in to steely blue.

"All of you.  Not just physically.  This," he indicated, tapping his finger to the politician's forehead, just above his worried brow.  "And this."  With that, he placed his hand on Mycroft's chest, directly above his heart.  "I'll be here to give you anything you need when you come back.  I meant every word I said earlier.  I do plan on making sure you smile more often.  Can't do that if you let that monster get inside your head and start tearing you apart.  So yeah.  Please, hold on for as long as you can.  And," this was the hardest part, no turning back now, but Greg could feel a burning in his eyes that had more to do with emotion than fatigue.  

"A-and if you have to let go... please don't be worried.  At least not for Sherlock.  No matter what happens, no matter whether or not we get you back, but we will, I promise you that.  Still.  I-if something happens, I swear on my life I'll take care of him with everything I have and more besides."

"Now.  What should I know that will make it easier to find you?  Give me any information you have, Mycroft, please.  It's the only way I'll be able to let you walk out of here without losing my mind."

\---------------------------------------

Having arrived at his Brixton warehouse, Gibson typed out another message to Mycroft, allowing himself to grin wildly.  Just a few more minutes, and he'd have his favorite plaything back.  While he had no illusions that it would be the permanent arrangement he'd so like it to be, the blonde had a great deal of faith in his own abilities to make every single second they spent together scar the politician's very soul.  And with a bit of work on his part, Neil could make sure they got as many of those moments together as possible.

**You'll find a laptop and a new phone in the back seat of the car that comes to pick you up.  If you've been foolish to try and bring a firearm I recommend you dispose of it.  The glass between you and the driver will be bulletproof, and I'd hate to see you bleed out because of ricochet.  Use the computer to start erasing traces of your departure from the hospital security cameras, as well as any that might pick up your trail from outside the building.  I've already started work on my end with the traffic cameras.  And don't be stupid about it.  Trying to leave a trail for your people to follow will result in a rather painful time of it for your brother.  After all, I may no longer be with him but my bodyguard is, and Tomas is only a phone call away.  He'll break every bone in your baby brother's face before your team can stop him.  I imagine we can dispense with the tiresome threats once you're actually in my company.  I do think they're getting a bit predictable.  But then again, it's not like you respond to anything else.**

**Also, the phone has been locked so it only will dial out to my number.  But if you miss me so much you need to hear my voice before you arrive, I wouldn't begrudge you a call.**

**See you soon, Mikey darling.**

\---------------------------------------

" _I understand._ "

Two words, and Mycroft felt an unbelievable weight lift off of his shoulders. Greg understood. He was going to let him go. Mycroft no longer needed to feel that crushing guilt as the other man pleaded with him to stay, to explain, to do something other than push him away with what little remaining strength he had. He was glad, honestly, that Greg could accept this, because walking out that door while knowing that Greg would sit here stewing in his own guilt about letting him go honestly might kill him right now. No, it was better that Greg handle this calmly. Accept the possibility that he might not come back.

And then Greg was asking him for a promise, a promise to stay together for him, and the bruised voice that he asked it in told Mycroft everything he needed to know. Greg was being crushed by this. By the sheer weight of the situation, his concern for both Holmes brothers, his loss of what-might-have-been with Mycroft personally. And it was Mycroft's fault. He had been the one to drag Greg into this mess in the first place, have him start looking after Sherlock, and he was the one with the crazy archnemesis/stalker/ex who had organized for Greg to be killed and Sherlock kidnapped. This whole situation was entirely his fault and he honestly wished that he'd never met Neil Gibson in the first place or had never left his company despite the two years of hell he went through because both Sherlock and Greg were too good to be involved in this. Mycroft deserved it, but they didn't.

Greg brushed his fingers through his hair once more and Mycroft missed his hand as soon as it was pulled away. He didn't have to wait long for it to return, however, as Greg tapped his forehead, and then put his hand over his heart, which suddenly picked up speed at the unexpected contact. He leaned forward unconsciously into the touch, listening intently as Greg finished asking him for a promise and then made one of his own. Of all the things he could have said, Greg was honestly speaking the words that Mycroft needed to hear the most. Promising to take care of Sherlock, look after him, and assuring Mycroft that they were going to get him back. It should have been a crime to care this much about someone else.

Greg's worried brown eyes were focused intently on him, trying to reassure at the same time as his worry was evident, obvious in his eyes and tone and words and very bearing. It was almost too much for Mycroft, who knew this was all going to come to an end far sooner than he was ready for. His time was already running out, and he'd have to leave before he was unable to. But it wouldn't do to go without a proper goodbye and a reassurance to Greg's poor strained psyche.

He put his hand over the one that Greg had on his heart, holding it tightly as he looked at Greg, all veils dropped and pure honesty in his gaze. "Thank you," he said sincerely, and there was so much summed up in those two words. Thank you for the evening, thank you for taking care of my little brother, thank you for understanding, thank you for fighting for me, thank you for just being the amazing, caring, wonderful man you are, thank you for caring at all...there were so many things to thank Greg for, and Mycroft couldn't bring himself to say any of them. So he kept himself to those two words, wishing he could say or do more but knowing that every word would have brought him closer to a breakdown at the edge of Greg's bed, and the other man needed to see that he was okay right now, that he could come out of this alright. Unbroken. Even if that was a complete lie because he still hadn't fully recovered from the previous time spent with Neil.

His phone chimed, again, and he couldn't help the grimace that crossed his face as he let go of Greg's hand to check it again. Leave it to Neil to ruthlessly eliminate every possibility of rescue as efficiently as he could. Not to mention the fact that he was forcing Mycroft to actively participate in his own destruction by having him destroy evidence of where he'd gone. He knew, of course, that his team would be able to find him eventually anyway, and he was sure Neil knew this was only a temporary advantage too, but any amount of time spent in the man's company was too long and Neil could cause damage with five minutes, let alone days or weeks with Mycroft alone.

He suppressed a sigh, breathing out heavily through his nose instead, and changed his security settings and went back to the home screen before handing his mobile to Greg. "As for recovering me, I'm entrusting you with this. Give it to Anthea after I leave, she and my team will be able to use it to help discover my location. Neil will be providing me with a limited mobile anyway, and I don't want him to get his hands on this one. He'll communicate with my team in regards to recovering Sherlock, but as soon as I leave this hospital I will cease having contact with anyone from my team. Which is why it's essential that you see that this gets to Anthea, and only Anthea. If you require updates on Sherlock's condition and recovery, Anthea will be more than willing to keep you informed."

"The other information I can give you is that I highly doubt he will take me out of the country. He knows this is short-lived, so he won't want to waste any time he could have with me by taking me on a flight out of England, and he operates mostly within the country anyway, so there wouldn't be much point in leaving. From this point forward I will be out of contact with the rest of the world, including you and including my brother."

He paused here, eyes shifting as his voice grew heavy over his next words. "In regards to my brother. He...he won't be in a coherent state when he returns to the hospital. Once he is, however, coherent, he will either deduce what I have done or he will demand to know where I am and what is going on, and Anthea will know not to involve him in the investigation. I am not foolish enough to believe that that will stop him from trying to find me again, and he will most likely turn to you for answers. Sherlock is more tenacious than is good for him and he'll know that you want to find me just as much as he does. If he does come to you, I must request that you don't tell him the name Neil Gibson. While I'm certain he'll figure that out on his own--"

He stopped again, voice trailing off. How to explain this to Greg? "While I'm certain he'll figure it out on his own, hearing the name itself will send him into an unhealthy fit of rage and vengeance and I would rather avoid that, as it will only make him more determined to find me and as a result, less healthy, and he's already skin and bones and bruises as it is," he said, casting serious blue eyes on Greg. This was a point that he couldn't stress enough because yes, it was true, it would send Sherlock into an unhealthy revenge spiral that wouldn't end well for anyone involved, but also because Greg mentioning the name to Mycroft's younger brother might allow the DI to gain more information about the exact nature of Mycroft's relationship with Neil and that was the last thing he wanted. Greg didn't need to know any of the facts that Sherlock knew, or any of the other deductions he'd made about it.

Time was running out. He had to wrap this up and say goodbye to Greg, because otherwise he'd never want to leave. He stood, pulling his IV out of his arm again with a slight grimace and standing by the edge of Greg's bed, taking the DI's hand in his own again. "I'm sorry, Gregory, I truly must go now. I appreciate your promise to look after my brother in my absence, but please do make sure to take care of yourself as well. You need time to recover and heal. If I'm going to promise to return in one piece, I must make you promise to be in one piece when I return. And really, thank you for everything. I'd never make it through this without you."

\---------------------------------------

When one pale hand clasped itself over the hand Greg had placed over the politician's heart, Lestrade very nearly choked on the flood of emotion that followed.  Frustration, anger (though not directed at Mycroft, certainly) sorrow, worry... they all swirled around inside his mind, fighting for dominance over his thought process.  In the background, the tiniest spark of happiness continued to flicker, ignited by the touch itself and fed by the soft, heartfelt "thank you" that Mycroft delivered.  The words, though few, said more and meant more than either man could put into words.  So they sat in silence for a moment, eyes locked.  Mycroft's blue grey eyes were completely open, his expressive face subtly letting every emotion the man felt flicker over his features.  As always, he was subdued, staid, but the plain honesty on his face stole the breath from Greg's lips.  He watched the fear, anger, doubt, resignation, insecurity, and determination dance through those smoky blue irises, nearly losing himself in the intense intimacy of the gaze.  

_God.  This must be what poets mean when they talk about drowning in someone's eyes_.  Greg continued gazing at the politician's face as he searched his own mind for the right words.  The words that would express everything he was feeling to Mycroft with crystal clarity.  But anything he thought of seemed inadequate, so they sat locked in silence, gazing at each other until the damnable chime of Mycroft's phone indicated another incoming message.  If thoughts could kill, Lestrade would have committed a first degree murder so heinous that he'd never see daylight again.

Reluctantly, the hand across his own released its hold, and Greg allowed his hand to drop from its resting place above Mycroft's heart.  Greg's own heart convulsed as the elegant man next to him gritted his teeth and bit back a sigh.  Somehow, without words, the DI simply knew.  It was the summons; the demand for Mycroft to turn himself over.  Ivory fingers danced over the mobile's screen, and unexpectedly the politician handed the device to Greg with the instruction to release it to no-one but Anthea.  Greg nodded at the instruction; it would make sense that the lovely PA would be the point person to conduct any investigation into Mycroft's disappearance.  She knew the politician better than anyone (why did that thought make his heart ache slightly?) and seemed to at least know something of Neil and Mycroft's shared past.  The DI hoped that would give her an edge when it came to tracking them down.

As Mycroft asked him not to tell Sherlock about Neil Gibson's involvement, Greg's mouth twisted.  What could possibly have happened to Mycroft that would have **Sherlock** haring off on a vengeance quest?  He knew that the enmity between the two brothers wasn't entirely wholehearted (especially from Holmes the elder), but Sherlock did honestly seem to barely put up with his brother even when things were "good" between them.  Either the detective played his emotions even closer to the vest than his older brother did (a frightening thought), or what had happened to Mycroft was beyond horrifying.  Perhaps both.  The thought did nothing to comfort Lestrade as he considered that the elder Holmes was willingly walking back into the same situation to save his brother from a similar fate.  A surge of protectiveness coursed through him, making already stiff muscles even more tense.  God.  If, once they got Mycroft back, Sherlock ever spoke to his brother in so much as a petulant tone Greg swore the younger man would never so much as look at another Yard-associated case.  Ever.  But now wasn't the time to think about those things; Mycroft was here but leaving and the man deserved all his attention.  Still, Lestrade filed the information away at the back of his brain for further thought.

Then, those slate blue eyes clouded over again as Mycroft stood and removed his IV and took hold of Greg's hand.  Something about the finality of the gesture made Lestrade feel even more hollow than he already did.  Fuck.  This was really happening.  The finality of it all finally hit him, sending his head spinning.  This wasn't some terrible dream or stupid afternoon story.  No, this was real, this was actually happening and this moment right now could very well be the last moment he ever spent with Mycroft Holmes.  The DI's brain scrambled for words, but nothing seemed to fit.  What was there possibly left to say?  Greg wasn't sure of his own complicated feelings, so how could he explain them to Mycroft?  He had fallen for the other man quite hard, but there hadn't been enough time for him to figure out exactly how hard or what that even meant.  Sure,Lestrade knew he had a deep crush on the handsome man.  But did it mean there was the potential for something more?  Greg certainly hoped so, but they simply hadn't had time.  The loss of what felt like infinite potential was crushing.  Mycroft asked Greg to take care of himself, and still unable to form a sentence the DI numbly nodded in agreement and squeezed the hand holding his own with what he hoped passed for reassurance and not desperation.

" _I'd never make it through this without you._ "  Before the silver haired man could respond, Mycroft released his hand and turned, striding purposefully out of the hospital room.  For a few seconds all the DI could do was sit in stunned silence.  The words continued to hang heavily in the hospital air even after Mycroft had passed through the door and rounded the corner.  Once he was sure the taller man was out of earshot, Greg cursed loudly and balled his fist, landing a solid blow on the railing of his hospital bed.  The impact sent a blaze of pain coursing along his wounded side, which just served to make him even angrier.   _Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, **fuck.**   **No**_.  Now was not the time to let his frustrations overcome him.  Every second Mycroft was gone was too long.  He tucked the politician's phone behind his pillow. It wasn't the best hiding place in the world, but if someone came in and tried to take it, Lestrade figured that he could at least make it take a bit longer than if he had simply left the device sitting on his bedside tray.  Once it was secured, he grabbed his own phone and texted Anthea.

**Mycroft's gone. Went to meet with the psychopath.  Something really bad happened but I don't know what.  Right before he left he got a message and then had some sort of panic attack or something.  I could barely get him to respond for a few minutes.  He came out of it and insisted that he had to go.  Come to my room?  I have some non-text based things to tell you.**

\---------------------------------------

Leaving Greg's room was one of the hardest things Mycroft had ever done, and though he'd thought it would be easier with growing distance, it only got harder with every step he took away from the DI. He knew it was unfair to leave like that, without letting Greg say any form of his own goodbye, but the DI had looked speechless anyway, and it was better this way. Any more words out of Greg's mouth would have just made it that much harder to leave, and the politician had no other choice. It was this, or lose Sherlock. And that wasn't really a question.

He felt naked without his mobile. Disconnected, floating in the ether, abandoned. And that was true, really. No more Anthea. Sherlock had been passed out since he'd arrived at the hospital, so he hadn't exactly been an ally, but he was the one Mycroft was saving anyway. And that left Greg. The biggest loss, at the moment, the one that hurt the most with a raw, stinging pain in his chest that grew deeper with every step he took. It was hard to remember how Greg had looked as he said goodbye, brown eyes wide and full of concern and dread and the guilt that came with not being able to interfere, to help. He'd promised Greg he would come back in one piece, but they both knew that was a promise that he couldn't keep. He couldn't guarantee what state he would come back in when he came back. If he managed to make it back from this at all.

He didn't let himself think about it as he slid into the back of the waiting town car, shutting the door behind him. He was alone save for a surly looking bodyguard who didn't even spare him a glance, and he repressed a sigh and opened the waiting laptop, setting to work deleting all evidence that he had ever been in the hospital. It was far too easy, and he hated the detached efficiency that he could use at a moment's notice to take care of things like this. Once he was done, he quickly sent a text to Neil on his new mobile telling him as much, which he had to admit was very cleverly locked so he could only contact Neil, no matter how much he picked at the security measures. He didn't expect anything less from Neil, honestly, but it was just another black spot on an already hopeless day.

He closed the laptop again and placed it on the seat next to him, the mobile going easily into his pocket. God, this was going to be hard. Worth it, but hard. And especially because he couldn't check up on Greg and Sherlock's recovery progress while he was under Neil's thumb. He would be completely in the dark as to how his little brother was dealing with his injuries, plus the heroin in his system--he'd been clean for so long and fucking Neil, he was really going to murder him for that one--as well as about how Greg's stab wound was healing. His own injury would make it that much harder to deal with Neil, but at this point he wasn't concerned. Everything made it harder to deal with Neil.

But really, he just felt so guilty about the whole thing. About leaving Greg alone like that, looking lost and hurt and far too small in that hospital bed. Leaving him to take care of Sherlock in his absence. Leaving Anthea to carry the weight of an entire investigation for his recovery when he himself had deleted all traces of his disappearance. She, at least, would recognize his subtle touch. Maybe she'd give a wry smile in appreciation when she viewed the footage, or heard from another member of the team that it was completely unhelpful, tampered with. An awful kind of smile almost touched his lips at this thought, but it was wiped away at the thought of Greg seeing the footage. Despairing. Greg wasn't involved in the investigation, of course, he wasn't allowed to be, but Mycroft was certain he'd get around that somehow, probably with Sherlock's help. He knew it was going to happen, but the last thing he wanted was for either of them to be caught in the scope of Neil's rifle.

This was really the worst thing. Everything Neil did was bad, but it was really this. Killing potential. Killing Sherlock's potential by introducing drugs to his system again and putting him on bed-rest. Killing Greg's potential with Mycroft, that wonderful date that could have become something more if only they'd had a damn chance together. Killing Mycroft's potential for a happy life, one that didn't involved Neil fucking Gibson and his stranglehold on Mycroft's psyche. So many branches of possibilities and potential outcomes that could have happened, maybes and what-might-have-been's and should-be's that no longer existed. Murdered. Every last one of them. And each one hurt to lose.

The car ride was far shorter than he wanted it to be, and he found himself at a warehouse before he knew it. He didn't know where they were--too far with too many turns for him to be able to catalog it accurately, though he could guess if he needed to--and the bodyguard in the car escorted him out and into the building, where Neil was waiting, looking like the fucking cat that ate the canary. Mycroft didn't bother to give him a reaction, saying instead, "I'm here, Neil, so my brother had better have been returned or this will be a very short-lived reunion indeed."

So maybe a chill went through him at the sight of those green eyes. And maybe a sense of dread rose up in his stomach, sick and hot and suffocating. And maybe, just maybe, he knew in the back of his mind that this was going to unequivocally, irrevocably, beyond the shadow of a doubt, leave him broken again. But it was alright, as long as they were safe. As long as Sherlock was safe. As long as Greg was safe.

\---------------------------------------

The next dozen hours or so of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's life were a complicated blur.  Anthea came in, collected Mycroft's phone, listened to his recounting of their final discussion, and left quickly.  Greg was appreciative of her brevity; they both knew that the sooner they started looking the sooner they could find Mycroft and that was all that mattered.

The nursing staff was next.  Lestrade ended up throwing three separate nurses out of his room for insisting that he take another round of scheduled pain medication.  Greg kept refusing.  He was so tired, so very very tired, and the meds would put him out.  And that couldn't happen.  He had promised Mycroft that he'd look after Sherlock.  And even if he couldn't participate in the pick up because of his hospitalization he could at least make sure he stayed awake to confirm the younger man's pickup and arrival.  Eventually the nurses stopped coming in and fighting with him.  Greg couldn't tell if they had finally given up, or if Anthea had simply taken pity on him and ordered them to leave off.  The only benefit to the situation was that the angry, burning pain in his side did wonders to keep him from falling asleep.  Time passed without much meaning, but Lestrade thought (hoped) that only about an hour or so had passed before he got a text from Anthea saying that Sherlock had been recovered and transported to the hospital.

When Sherlock finally arrived, Anthea insisted that he and Greg be kept in the same room.  The DI realized that this was likely to be half because it really would be easier to secure one room, and half because she knew that Greg would feel much less anxious when he could actually keep an eye on the younger Holmes.  Looking at Sherlock's battered face made his heart lurch, torn between fathomless rage and equally vast sadness.   A rather nasty voice in the back of his head kept whispering how this was all his fault.  That he should have gotten Sherlock out of the investigation sooner, once he suspected the young man had gotten in too deep.  Should have never let the consulting detective out of his sight after he noticed the first beating Sherlock had taken.  Though that would have meant a much different evening with Mycroft.  one in which he didn't get shot, the voice continued.  But then, Mycroft might not have smiled, might not have opened up.  And despite the insecurities and worry he felt about the confusing web of emotions that connected Lestrade to the handsome politician, he couldn't help but feel like somehow Mycroft's happiness prior to the unfortunate series of events that unfolded was **important**.  

" _I'd never make it through this without you._ "  The last words the politician spoke to him rang through his head once again, and Greg gritted his teeth. No, they would get Mycroft back.  And he could find out if that sentence meant what he hoped it meant.  That Greg had actually made a difference, helped the auburn haired man somehow, that Mycroft would continue to let him do so.  All they had to do was get him back.  And soon.  The thought of Neil alone with Mycroft was eating away at the inside of Lestrade's head, fraying the very few nerves he had left.

No sooner than Sherlock was wheeled into his room did the nursing staff return, insisting that Greg take his medications and rest.  Finally, the DI was so exhausted and pain sick that he accepted.  He had to get better as soon as possible in order to find Mycroft, to become mobile before Sherlock so he could keep track of the young detective like he had promised.  Finally, brown eyes slid closed as Greg finally let himself drift off to the ever present sound of beeps from his and Sherlock's equipment.

\---------------------------------------

Sherlock woke up with the knowledge that he'd gotten high again, though he didn't remember how or why and didn't remember the experience of being high itself, really. He just knew, with the same acute sense of self that he usually knew things with, and that made it all the more confusing when he remembered the attack and realized he was in the hospital. A few deductions, then, to start off his morning--was it morning? The sunlight said at least it was the day--even though his head was pounding.

Hospital room, that much was obvious, and the attack explained that away easily enough, though he wasn't sure what drugs had to do with that, but what was more telling was the security team posted outside the door -- Mycroft's work, of course, he could recognize his men easily enough -- though the security was double what it normally was. Perhaps that was because Greg Lestrade was in the bed near his, but that made no sense at all. Hmm. Clearly injured, taking pain medication, wincing when one side was pulled -- wound on his abdomen then, probably a knife wound otherwise it would be much more serious -- but how he had gotten there in the first place was a mystery. Injury, must have been caused by an attack, the security team was doubled so Greg was also in danger, and his safety was important to Mycroft and his team. Oh, so the two attacks were connected then. Take out the person doing the legwork as well as the one taking care of the paperwork. Smart, but not smart enough if both of them were alive and well. though Greg looked more ill than well, actually. Broken in his bed, and not because of the wound because it would take a lot more than a physical injury like that to phase the DI.

A psychological one then, something that had happened while Sherlock was asleep. Something personal, close to him, he looked guilty, a failure to keep a promise? Maybe just the failure to protect Sherlock. But that wasn't it because his eyes lit up when he saw Sherlock was awake, though the guilt wasn't completely absolved. Sherlock was getting irritated with this. He didn't want any of Greg's guilt and he didn't want a security team outside his door like a particularly protective guard dog that was constantly breathing down his neck. He'd have to talk to his brother about this.

"Lestrade," he said, his voice the usual cool baritone he used when addressing people professionally, "where is my brother?"

\---------------------------------------

A rustling sound from the bed next to him violently pulled Greg from a groggy half sleep.  Still on edge from the unbelievable earlier events, he seemed to be in some sort of hypersensitive state to potential danger.  Fortunately, the noise was just Sherlock beginning to rouse from his sleep.  A deep sigh of relief pulled it's was from the DI's core, though the action pulled his side and made him wince somewhat.  The pain did nothing to offset his alleviation at seeing the younger man finally begin to wake.  Though the feeling evaporated as easily as morning mist as Sherlock's irritated, icy voice demanded to know where his brother was.

"Sherlock," Greg said thickly, any momentary happiness he felt at the detective's revival washed away by his immediate inquiry about his brother.  "Sherlock, Mycroft is..."  God the words were hard to get out.  They stuck in his throat, digging in with painful barbs and refusing to go any further.  Only the thought of his promise to Mycroft managed to loosen them at all, as he reminded himself that he couldn't very well watch after the younger Holmes if he didn't tell him what was going on.  Sherlock was likely to try and work things out on his own, and if Lestrade didn't at least make himself marginally useful he knew that the younger man wouldn't allow him along at all.  

This wasn't like the Yard, where Sherlock needed Greg, the older man realized.  This was completely the opposite, and the thought of being dependent on the surly, raven haired young man for any involvement he might have in finding his brother made the DI a touch uncomfortable.  The younger Holmes was not renowned for his ability to work well with others.  Quite the opposite in fact.  But he did seem to tolerate Greg more than he tolerated most other people, which was not at all.  Still, even though their relationship was complicated, the young detective was an assault victim whose brother had essentially been taken hostage.  Greg made sure to use his "bad news" voice; soft but firm.  Sympathetic, but to the point.  God.  How much bad news had he given in his life using that voice?  Out of all of it, this was by far the worst.  It was hard to keep an even keel when the stakes were so very personal.

"He's gone Sherlock.  Someone made attempts on both our lives; Mycroft got quite literally caught in the crossfire.  He took what he **says** is a minimal gunshot wound to his upper left arm.  There's a lot I'm still uncertain about, but it appears to be related to the human trafficking and drug syndicate case you were working.  They... you, well..."  Lestrade's voice faltered for a moment, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to continue.

"As far as I understand it you were beaten, quite badly and admitted here to the hospital.  Shortly after you arrived here, you were kidnapped.  It was demanded that Mycroft turn himself over to procure your release."  Greg checked his mobile, and a pang went through his heart.  "I-it's been about fifteen hours since I last saw him.  I understand that he left the hospital directly after talking with me, but the security footage doesn't show anything."  He laughed mirthlessly at Anthea's brief update to Greg; admiration and frustration both evident in her voice when she told him that the only person who could have covered the politician's tracks so thoroughly was Mycroft himself.  The PA was being too kind, taking a few minutes every once in awhile to offer Greg a rundown of what the investigation into Mycroft's whereabouts had managed to gather. Which, so far, was a great deal of nothing.

"Oh.  Right.  I've been suspended from the Yard, so our access to police resources is limited at best, nonexistent at worst.  And Anthea's been given specific instructions to prevent either of us from involving ourselves in the investigation by Mycroft himself.  She's been giving me updates, though.  I think she's just as worried about him as I am.  We have to find him Sherlock, and fast.  I'm certain he's in quite a lot of danger.  I know you just woke up, and I myself am not in a condition to do much of anything, but... well... fuck."  He swore, his agitation at the whole situation finally getting the better of him.

"I've got to at least be able to do something.  You're brilliant.  Any idea on what we can do from here that Anthea's team won't have thought of?"

\---------------------------------------

As Mycroft haltingly stepped into the open warehouse space, one of Neil's ever present bodyguards at his back, the older man allowed himself a truly indulgent smile.  He placed one hand over his heart, resting across the lapels of his grey suit.  

"Mycroft Holmes, you wound me!"  The sarcasm in his voice was sharp enough to cut, emphasized by the hollow sounding echo off the concrete and steel and empty spaces between.  He let the words hang for a moment before continuing.  "Whenever have I been untrue to my word?  Your brother is safe.  I'd say something like 'pending, of course, your continued behavior', but you did assure me that I'd have your faultless loyalty, so let's skip that whole tiresome dance."  Tanned fingers produced a mobile from his jacket pocket, and after a few fluid motions the chime on Mycroft's sang.  "Footage of your brother's retrieval.  Proof positive of his safety."  

When Mycroft didn't reply, Neil moved forward, closing the space between them until only a few scant centimeters remained.  "You know, your devotion to this whole caring for your brother charade is almost endearing, Mycroft.  But it just goes to prove how far removed you are from any understanding of the human heart at all.  He doesn't love you, your brother."  Noting the slight grimace on Mycroft face, the blonde amended his tactic.  

"Oh, he pretends at it just as well as you do, but only when he's cornered.  The difference between you and Sherlock is that he could care, but doesn't.  He continues the charade because it's socially polite, which is why he resents you so much for cornering him into doing it.  You, on the other hand, can't care but desperately cling to the facade because it provides you with the illusion that you are, in fact, capable of acting human."

"Think about it Mycroft.  Take a moment and observe your relationship from an outsider's perspective.  It becomes painfully obvious that Sherlock doesn't even remotely care about you.  In fact," he purred, running the back of his hand down the side of Mycroft's face, "He barely even tolerates you at the best of times.  And yet here you are, doing something you find distasteful and dangerous to insure his safety."  Neil withdrew his hand and continued to stalk in circles around Mycroft, a predator circling its prey.  "Is that how desperate you've become, after I left you, to prove that you can have a connection with someone?  That you'd chase this phantasm so far to your own detriment to prove it?

"Do you think he'll thank you for it?  Have you deluded yourself into thinking that he'll even care?  Most likely he'll welcome the absence of you in his life wholeheartedly.  No more meddling big brother to hold him back, to interfere.  I imagine the news of your disappearance will come as a relief."  Gibson extended one hand, taking hold of Mycroft's unslung wrist.  "Come along now, Mikey.  Let's show you to your new office."

\---------------------------------------

The first thing that was immediately obvious to Sherlock was that Greg had been emotionally compromised by the situation. The DI was having trouble getting out words, choking on whatever sense of guilt--and what was that, self-loathing?--had been caused by the situation. This wasn't just about Sherlock, oh no, quite the opposite, it was _Mycroft_ that Greg felt guilty about, and wasn't that fascinating? Out of everything to happen while he was asleep, he would never have expected his icy brother to have formed some sort of connection with Greg of all people, at least not one that went beyond pure professionalism.

Fascinating. Greg was quite clearly distraught over the whole situation, though he was trying to use his "look-at-me-I-can-express-sentiment-and-emote-like-everyone-else" voice, the one Sherlock had no use for unless he was playing a suspect or a witness in a case. But the sympathy he was using in this case was real--he was honestly upset over Mycroft's disappearance. Personally upset. " _We have to find him Sherlock, and fast.  I'm certain he's in quite a lot of danger._ " So. A personal attachment formed with Mycroft sometime while Sherlock had been asleep. He'd been kidnapped, so the drugs he was sure had been in his system must have come from there. A tactic to make his brother fold, certainly, since Mycroft's concern over Sherlock's drug use wasn't well hidden and was very nearly crushing to Sherlock. No doubt Mycroft had been worried about him keeping all of the drugs he'd purchased during the course of his investigation, but what was the point in disposing of them just so some other junkie could OD on them? Besides, they had gotten him almost to finding the identity of the mystery man behind both organizations, though that was what had earned him his beating in the first place.

And now they had Mycroft. Why on earth would they want Mycroft? They must have recognized his importance, then, realized his position, but that alone wouldn't have been enough to ask the man to turn himself over. No, they would have just asked him to shut down the investigations, reverse the damage he'd done in order to protect Sherlock, who they no doubt thought they were sending back into a self-destructive spiral by reintroducing drugs to his system. Idiots. It was never that simple.

So, another reason to desire Mycroft's presence, and Mycroft had willingly gone...well, of course he had, Sherlock's elder brother may have pretended to be an emotionless robot, but he was far from it when Sherlock was involved. Tragic, really, their relationship, or so Sherlock had been told on many occasions. What did the day to day minutiae matter, though, if both of them were willing to sacrifice to save the other one? Was it really necessary for them to have afternoon tea as well? Irrelevant, at the moment. Mycroft had given himself up for Sherlock. They must have known him better then, known his particular skill set and had clear reasons why they wanted him to turn himself over personally. A personal relationship then, someone who had known Mycroft, and still knew him well. The list was getting shorter and shorter by the minute.

Add in the fact that Anthea was keeping Greg personally updated--because how else would he have known about the security camera footage when he was in a hospital bed? besides, the room reeked of her perfume--and this had to be a very serious threat indeed, and one Anthea already knew the identity of. She was keeping Greg informed because of her own silly desire to see Mycroft and the DI happily settled down in some cottage with three brats running around--positively dull--despite Mycroft's instructions that Greg and Sherlock both were to be kept out of the investigation. Mycroft wouldn't be stupid enough to assume that either man would hold to that promise, but it was worth a try all the same in his mind, Sherlock supposed.

" _I've got to at least be able to do something.  You're brilliant.  Any idea on what we can do from here that Anthea's team won't have thought of?_ "

We. **We**. Oh, that little two letter word let him know everything he needed to know about Greg's part of the situation. He blamed himself for it, had probably tried to stop it from happening in the first place, had probably watched it unfold before his very eyes -- **wait**. Wait, Sherlock had been abducted from his hospital room and that simply would have been next to impossible if Mycroft had been in the room with him, and combining that knowledge with Greg's level of distress and the fact that Mycroft had left right after talking to Greg meant that without a doubt Mycroft had been in Greg's room instead. So it was a romantic attachment then, newly formed, probably earlier in the evening when the two had been together before the shooting started. Fascinating. A little bit startling, too, considering how well his brother formed romantic attachments, or attachments at all.

"You have to tell me everything else you know, immediately. What exactly did Anthea say? Wait, no, shut up, don't say a word." Eyes made the palest shade of mint green under the hospital lights narrowed as his mind continued to race, deductions considered and dismissed.  " _It was demanded that Mycroft turn himself over to procure your release... I_ _'m certain he's in quite a lot of danger._ " **Certain**. And Anthea was giving him personal updates, and they were equally concerned as Greg had said--the facts gathered so far coalesced suddenly into one brilliant deduction and he looked back at Greg again, eyes opening completely even as his lips compressed, twisted into a displeased expression.

"Tell me who it is, Lestrade," he demanded, and at the blank look Greg gave him he let out a noise of irritation and impatience. "You know who the kidnapper is, his exact identity, you found it out from Anthea much earlier and it's someone who was close to Mycroft or is still close to Mycroft, someone he knows, and I don't have the time or patience to explain my entire line of reasoning to you but you know and you have to tell me. Now. While there's still a chance I can get him back."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft is encouraged to make himself at home in Neil's care, while Greg and Sherlock start to look into where exactly that might be. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter are: eating disorders, kidnapping, mentions of human trafficking, mentions of drug use, emotional abuse, blackmail, unwelcome sexual advances, general psychopathy, and as one lovely reader put it "emotional torture porn" (aka extreme angst).

Mycroft had forgotten how cutting Neil could be when he really tried. Well, he wasn't even really trying at the moment, this was easy for him, pittance, a natural reaction. Neil emitted cruelty as easily as breathing. Inhale, exhale. Your brother doesn't love you. Your sacrifice means nothing because he wants you out of his life. No, no, no, as much as the words hurt, Mycroft knew with certainty that they weren't true. His relationship with Sherlock was...tempestuous, yes. Contentious. They quibbled and bickered and Sherlock tried his very hardest to avoid every one of Mycroft's attempts to take care of him, but it was all based on an actual foundation of love and family. In any family, there were always sore spots, old wounds, scars from fights that never properly healed because they were constantly picked at. But the brothers still cared about each other. It was Mycroft's duty to protect Sherlock, and though the younger man would never admit it, there were plenty of occasions that proved that Sherlock cared about his older brother as well.

But while Neil's words didn't get to Mycroft, his touch did. Soft, gentle, almost loving if taken out of context. Neil had always been an excellent predator, hiding his true, dangerous nature under soft touches and gestures that could make Mycroft go weak at the knees, unfortunately. Being with him had been a bipolar life, alternating between lovely affection and the sweetest sugar, and words that cut him right to his very soul and were intended to hurt, breakdowns caused by the wounds Neil inflicted that never seemed to heal. And hadn't healed even now, really, considering the continued yo-yoing of his weight from an old eating disorder, nearly beaten, and the occasional voice in the back of his head that spouted doubts and insults in a voice suspiciously close to Neil's.

He allowed himself to be led away, Neil's hand holding onto his wrist, and considered his options. His knowledge of Neil's psychology, the facts of their relationship, the situation he found himself in. Whatever he could use against him. Which, honestly, wasn't much at the moment. Anything he said could be used against him, any reaction he gave, but Neil would also take a lack of a reaction to push harder. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and the situation was looking increasingly bleak.

"Neil," he said, his voice blank, devoid of inflection, deciding no reaction was better than any at all, "what exactly do you intend to do with me now that I'm here? Surely your criminal enterprises aren't in such dire condition that you're relying on me to save them." The last sentence was more biting, a slight barb intended to prick at Neil rather than hurt. It was only fair that he tried to respond to Neil in kind.

\--------------------

Greg closed his eyes against the barrage of Sherlock's rapid fire words, first demanding he disclose everything said to him verbatim, then commanding him to not speak at all as his brain whirled and clicked through all the possible options.  Watching him process information at a crime scene was always fascinating; the way he could seemingly pull accurate information and forge connections out of thin air was nearly incomparable.  Lestrade opened his eyes again once Sherlock fell silent; supposing that watching the younger man run through the facts surrounding his brother's disappearance would make him feel better.  However, he did not find the comfort he wanted.  Every second that passed without Sherlock saying weighed heavily on him.  Though it couldn't have taken more than a mere fraction of a minute, the silence that spanned between them felt like it was painfully drawn out.  Finally, when that dulcet baritone began speaking again, a slight flare of hope rose in the DI's chest only to gutter when he realized what information the younger Holmes was asking for.

Fuck.  Of **course** the one thing Sherlock would ask about first would be the one thing that Mycroft specifically told Greg not to tell him.  Typical, really, that the younger man would hone in on the one area that his older brother wanted him steered away from.  Great.  Now the question remained as to how Lestrade could give Sherlock the information without actually telling him Neil Gibson's name.

"Your brother asked me, quite sincerely, not to tell you."  Ignoring the offended look he got from the green eyed young man, he continued with a sigh.  "He said knowing who it was would send you into some rage driven revenge spiral."  Greg gave a wan smile.  "Well, those may not have been his exact words, but I think I've captured the gist of it."

"Please.  I know your brother can be a bit over-concerned when it comes to your reactions, but promise me you're not going to go haring off on this one.  Mycroft would... well.  Look.  After everything he's been through if you went and got yourself in some trouble again while looking for him it'd all have been pointless.  I won't have it, Sherlock.  I may be suspended, but I bet I could ask Donovan to arrest and hold you on some trumped up charges and she wouldn't even consider it a favor.  So promise me," Greg made his stare as hard as possible, brown eyes boring into Sherlock's aquamarine.  The younger man made a bit of a face, and in return the DI let some of the anger and exhaustion he was feeling seep into his voice.  " **Promise me** you're not going to do something impulsive and dangerous."

"Anthea said it was his arch-nemesis, or something to that effect."  Ordinarily the ridiculousness of the statement would cause Lestrade to pause and consider what he had just said.  In all seriousness, who has an arch-nemesis?  It seemed a comforting thought until he realized that anyone that could force Mycroft's hand deserved the title.  The thought of Neil Gibson as some sort of master villain didn't make Greg question the nature of Anthea's description, though.  All it did was make his hands itch with the deep need to bury his knuckles deep into (what he assumed would be) the man's smug face.

"Anyway, is that enough for you to go by, or do I actually have to break my word to your brother that I wouldn't tell you the man's name?"  There.  Sufficient information for Sherlock to deduce who the perpetrator of all this chaos and destruction was, and technically Greg hadn't given over Neil's name.  Not that he thought the specifics of it would change the dark haired detective's reaction any, but at least he'd feel slightly less guilty about only breaking his word to Mycroft in essence if not in fact.

The momentary look of sheer disgust and unbridled anger that flashed across Sherlock's features spoke more than words possibly could.  But the expression that frightened the DI the most was the microsecond he thought he saw deep worry reflected in those unearthly green eyes.  So, it really was that bad.  Whoever this Neil person was, he had enough consideration from Sherlock to make the younger man visibly worry (albeit briefly) about his older brother.  Fuck.  Not good.   **So** not good.

"Sherlock," he said, trying to keep his voice as even as possible.  Though the thought of Neil doing anything to Mycroft was enough to make his innards twist in opposite directions, torn equally between concern and rage, it was up to him to be the rational party here.  To keep Sherlock in line, to keep his promise to Mycroft.  "Sherlock, tell me who it is.  Tell me what he's done before, what we can expect now.  How we can find him.  What I can do.  Without you I'm quite literally flying blind here.  Please."

\--------------------

Neil couldn't help but give a derisive laugh at Mycroft's attempt at a stinging comment.  "Mikey!  You've become too easy to bait in your old age.  Did you really think I'd let you anywhere near my organization?"  His smile was a knife's edge, sharp and eager for blood.  "I've little use for you in that capacity, and any usefulness you may have possessed is far outweighed by your tendency to meddle.  No, the only consulting you'll be doing here is with me, on a strictly **personal** level."  It was disappointing to see that  the words produced no reaction.  Ah.  The Mycroft Holmes silent treatment.  Well, that was no worry.  Neil liked to talk about Mycroft, especially **to** Mycroft.

"In fact this very building has been specially procured just for our current arrangement.  After all, it wouldn't do to have your whole team of operatives crash my business when they can eventually be bothered to come 'round looking for you."  It was true; anything associated with his businesses, legitimate or otherwise would be too easy to track down.  No, this location had been borrowed from a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a friend's business partner's family.

"Until then, you have my largely undivided attention.  An act of largess on my part, truly. You seem to be unable to replace me, and I've always had a soft spot for you Mycroft.  I never could let you be alone for too long.  It's just too **sad**.  No one else has ever found it in them to put up with your icy demeanor; no one else will tolerate your lack of ability to give anything of yourself because there's nothing to give."  Neil continued to lead Mycroft by the wrist, the politician trailed by one of his team of semi-identical body guards.  The trio moved into a freight lift, and Gibson picked a numberless button before it shuddered and started to move.  In the confined space, he was close enough to Mycroft to see the tension in the man's shoulders.  The way the barest hint of tendons stood out at the juncture of his throat and jaw made Neil want to bite down into them, relishing the tangible evidence of the fear and anxiety.  Instead, he increased the pressure on the younger man's thin wrist, enjoying the flutter of his erratic pulse pressed up against his thumb.

"After all, how long did your last boyfriend make it?  That lovely chap with the dark hair from the CIA?  You managed to drag out that awful affair longer than I expected.  Three months, wasn't it?"  As they arrived on their floor, Neil continued to lead his captive down a seemingly endless corridor of steel and concrete.  Every so often a door spotted the otherwise featureless walls.  The dreariness of the setting reflected the lack of emotion that was positively emanating from the other man.  Time to push just a bit harder, then.

"If I remember correctly, the last month wasn't even that good.  Not that you put a whole lot into it.  In fact, I think those were his parting words to you, weren't they?  Broke up with you via voicemail, I heard.  'Mycroft'," he imitated, pouring no small amount of contemptuousness into his tone.  " 'I can't be with you anymore.  Things aren't moving forward between us because you won't let them.  You won't let me in.  I hope you find someone that you'll let get close to you, someday.  But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hurt when I realized that no matter what I did, it wasn't going to be me’."  The blonde followed the recitation with a cold laugh.

"Well, you needn't worry about any of that for now.  I'm here for you, Mycroft.  I know just what you like, even the things you won't admit to yourself.  And I always give you exactly what you need."  They arrived in front of a cold, gray door, indistinguishable from any of the others they had passed.  Neil produced a key card from his pocket, and swiped it through the security pad.  A dull thud indicated the loosing of the bolt, and the door swung open.

Inside was a rectangular room, about 3.5 by 4.5 meters large.  Neil surveyed the contents with a critical eye, finding himself rather pleased with what his people had managed to put together on such short notice.  It wasn't five star accommodations by any stretch of the imagination, but it wasn't exactly a jail cell either.  A rather elegant looking queen sized bed sat in one corner of the room, the linens and duvet all of an acceptable level of quality.  Next to the bed sat a bedside table, empty save for the charger for Mycroft's new phone. Toward the center of the room sat a table sized for two.  The wall parallel to the bed held a small wardrobe.  And directly across from the foot bed, placed so it would be visible to Mycroft as he lay down, was a rather large refrigerator.

"And you, Mycroft Holmes, need a vacation.  No work, no distracting phone or internet access, nothing to trouble that wildly overactive mind of yours.  Just a good friend," he tugged the auburn haired man into the room, pulling him over to the fridge.  "Some of your favorite foods," he purred, "and nothing but some time to relax and enjoy them both."

\--------------------

Mycroft was keeping secrets again, and there was little that irritated Sherlock more. His brother's 'everything-I-touch-is-governmental-and-secret-so-piss-off' attitude was insufferable normally, but was even worse in situations like this when it appeared he was doing everything in his power to make it impossible for his little brother to track him down. Though apparently he had asked for more personal reasons, which confused Sherlock even further. Though Sherlock might have wanted to find his brother, recover him, there were few people who would send him into a rage-induced revenge spiral. At least, few people who were involved with Mycroft. He had plenty of his own grudges to deal with, but few that involved his brother.

He was momentarily distracted from his train of thought as Greg threatened to have him detained for little to no reason. He nearly scoffed at that. It was an empty threat and they both knew it. Greg wanted Mycroft back, and badly, and knew that Sherlock was his best bet at not only finding Mycroft but also being actually **involved** in the search for him. Sherlock knew, **knew** beyond the shadow of a doubt that Greg desperately wanted to be involved. It was in his every move, his every expression, his very tone of voice. Greg wasn't the type of man who could sit around while a situation was going on, nevermind a dangerous situation involving someone he was close to. So really, Sherlock held all the power here, but if Greg wanted to threaten him with an arrest he was more than welcome to. Sherlock could always just lock him out of his investigation.

Especially since as soon as the word 'arch-nemesis' crossed Greg's lips, he knew who it had been. Of course. Neil fucking Gibson. The only person who could reduce his brother to nearly nothing with just his presence. He couldn't help the look of revulsion and hatred that crossed his face at the thought of the glib American, though worry was quick to follow. Neil was a miserable, wretched bastard, but that didn't change the fact that he could very easily break Mycroft, and would, in fact, enjoy it immensely. Really, Sherlock would have been happy to find out that anyone else had his brother, even if it had been the Devil himself. Anyone would have been better than Neil bloody Gibson. No wonder Mycroft hadn't wanted him to know; he didn't want Sherlock to reveal to Greg who exactly Neil was and what their 'relationship' had been like. Sorry, dear brother, but your safety is more important than your pride, he thought bitterly.

That bitterness seeped into his expression as his lips twisted into a smile, small, bitter, and completely devoid of humor. "Neil Gibson," he said, his lip dragging upwards in something of a sneer at the name. "Of course. I should have known, this entire situation **reeks** of his particular brand of sadism." He turned to look at the wall as he shook his head slightly, irritated. His voice was brittle when he next spoke, icy enough to burn and practically dripping with angry sarcasm. "Neil Gibson is affectionately known as the man who broke Mycroft to Anthea and myself, and Mycroft simply doesn't refer to him at all. He's much happier if he pretends Neil never existed in the first place."

His eyes flashed back to Greg, greenish-blue fire in their gaze. "You would have to ask my dear brother for the entire story, as no one knows it aside from him and Neil. I only know the few things he told me, the deductions I made about it, and the events that I directly witnessed," he said, and suddenly switched into the detached state he could turn on at will, the one where his eyes unfocused slightly, fixing on a point in the distance as he relayed facts in an emotionless, inflectionless voice. "As far as I know, they met at Uni. Neil was a senior and Mycroft a freshman, and somehow they struck up a romantic relationship that lasted two years, at which point Mycroft left to join the British Government. He does not speak about what happened at Uni, but the signs of an emotionally and psychologically abusive relationship are not lost on me. He is the one who broke it off, I'm sure of that, but Neil didn't let go of him that easily."

"Mycroft cut off all contact with him but Neil's efforts didn't cease, and every time Neil tried to contact him Mycroft would show the same signs of being mentally affected by Neil's behavior. The last time they met in person was a year or two ago, and to my understanding, Mycroft only agreed to meet him in an effort to get him to stop completely. Whatever he said upset Neil deeply enough that Neil arranged for Mycroft to be in a car accident later that day." His lips twisted slightly at this, a slight look of displeasure. He'd never seen Mycroft as vulnerable as he had been in that hospital bed, barely alive and comatose, kept alive by wires and tubes and machines. It had honestly made Sherlock want to kill Neil Gibson, end this torturous game once and for all, but the man proved to be nearly a phantom, elusive and clever, and when Mycroft woke up and found out what Sherlock had done and the unhealthy spiral he'd descended into, he'd nearly put himself back into a coma with the sheer force of his anger. That entire incident had gone badly for everyone involved, and Sherlock was sure it was why Mycroft hadn't wanted Greg to tell Sherlock the name this time around. Like that had mattered.

"Essentially, every time my brother comes into contact with Neil Gibson, it's disastrous for him. Neil is a sadist, a sociopath, and has an unhealthy obsession with my brother that's partly fueled by the intimate knowledge he has of Mycroft's every weak spot. He could hurt him physically, but he doesn't have to. Give him five minutes alone with Mycroft and he'll have him hurting himself." The disgust was obvious in his voice, the disdain for this man who had done so much harm to his brother. Sherlock had never been particularly protective of his brother--that was something older siblings usually experienced towards younger siblings, not the other way around, as he and Mycroft proved--but Neil had crossed the line from the very start. Sherlock had only been eleven when Mycroft met Neil at Uni, but he'd been old enough to see the signs of what was happening to his brother. He'd watched over infrequent breaks from school--Christmas, spring, etc.--as his brother transformed from a smart, awkward and shy though mostly good-natured boy into a hardened, weary, broken man who was wary of letting anyone, even his own brother, in. Mycroft still wore the scars of that relationship to this very day, and a few were even physical.

He looked back at Greg, continuing to drone in his monotone, intent on laying everything out in one fell swoop so he wouldn't have to go over this again. "If Neil has my brother within his grasp again, he's going to do his best to put Mycroft back into the emotionally fragile state he was in at Uni, when he was weak and Neil could manipulate him as he wished. Mycroft is the only one who could tell you exactly what that entails, but in the end, when we recover him he will most likely not be himself, at least not for a while. But we **will** recover him, Lestrade," he said, and his voice was firm and steady on this, an honest assertion. "And if you're that desperate to be involved in the search for him, you won't have to resort to arresting me to be involved."

"Anthea's investigation will be thorough, clean, and very precise. And of course she'll look in entirely all the wrong places. This won't be directly tied to Neil at all, oh no, he's far too clever for that. He'll keep Mycroft somewhere that can't easily be tied back to him, somewhere he's removed from by four, five, six steps at least, and nowhere Mycroft has any chance of escaping or causing any damage if he did manage to escape. Obviously then, he won't have taken him anywhere like a hotel or flat, but it must have been somewhere relatively close by so Neil can continue to run his operations while looking after Mycroft which wouldn't be too hard since Mycroft's injury prevents him from moving too far. Shot in the arm, you said?"

He didn't wait for Greg's nod, continuing, "So, somewhere relatively close by that's been repurposed for Neil's plans but what those involve determines the hiding place." He leveled sharp eyes on Greg, the bright hospital lights and the dark bruises on his face making their color even paler than usual, refined. "Did he tell you anything before he left that might be of use?"

\--------------------

" _No one else has ever found it in them to put up with your icy demeanor; no one else will tolerate your lack of ability to give anything of yourself because there's nothing to give._ "

Mycroft tensed at this, Neil's biting words not lost on him, but didn't allow himself to show any other sign that the other man was getting to him. He couldn't, however, control the wild beating of his heart, picking up speed with each cruel barb that dug right under his skin, tearing at the scars that remained in his mind. Every muscle in his body felt tense, coiled tight and ready for a battle, though this would be a mental battle, not a physical one. He would almost have preferred a physical fight.

That feeling increased as Neil started talking about his most recent failed romantic endeavor, Mycroft fighting to keep a neutral expression at this point. That wound still hurt. Yes, James had lasted three months, and could have lasted much longer if Mycroft had been able to drop his barriers enough to just let the man in a little bit. But he had once again been incapable, stopped by his past with Neil and the crushing burden of doubt and fear that set itself on his shoulders whenever he contemplated a relationship with someone that was more than professional. He couldn't say he was surprised James ended it--he'd been expecting it, after all, and he knew how normal relationships ran even if he couldn't have one himself--but he had at least expected a little more class than a voicemail message.

" _Well, you needn't worry about any of that for now.  I'm here for you, Mycroft.  I know just what you like, even the things you won't admit to yourself.  And I always give you exactly what you need._ "

Mycroft had to repress a shudder at the truth--or rather half truth--in those words. Neil did know him better than nearly anyone else, and part of the reason he'd found it so hard to break away was that Neil could anticipate precisely what he needed to do to bring Mycroft back in. It was hard to end a relationship when one minute he was being emotionally abused and the next Neil was sneaking into his dorm at three in the morning just to curl up with him in his bed and breathe, only breaking the silence to whisper the sweet little affectionate things Mycroft needed to hear to stay. Yes, it had been the worst relationship he had ever been in, but at the high points it had also been the best. A perfect representation of Neil, actually; a paradox that contrasted sweetness and sadism until Mycroft couldn't withstand him anymore.

And Neil was doing his damnedest to try to drain Mycroft's will to leave him, judging from the room he was to be kept in. Gray walls, sparsely furnished...a prettier version of a jail cell. Or maybe a bird cage, since Mycroft felt flighty and anxious at the moment and Neil liked to keep him like a pet. And then he saw the fridge, and he couldn't help the look that was a cross between fear and revulsion that flashed across his features upon seeing it. Neil really did go straight for the jugular, didn't he? Right for the major issues, the most damaging, though it was one that Neil had only influenced, not directly caused.

Jesus. He wasn't ready for this. He could feel his posture slipping, the tension giving way to a sort of tacit acceptance, a weakness in his spine and his mind. It occurred to him, for what shouldn't have been the first time, that Neil's goal here could be to break him again so badly that even if Mycroft's team came to rescue him--which they would--he wouldn't want to go with them. Make it so he would rather stay here, with Neil, even if it meant a trumped up version of a cage and made him nothing more than a pet, than return to his other life. His actual life. God, he was truly terrified now.

His voice was cool when he finally managed to speak, trying not to grimace at the continued touch to his wrist. "I take it that you'll be the only one visiting me, then?" He smiled, thinly, the only smile he could manage though it came out as closer to a grimace. "One can only hope you'll be able to bear the brunt of my unstimulated mind, Neil. With nothing else to occupy it, it can get rather damaging to those exposed to it. Myself excluded, of course." That was a lie, a plain, bold-faced lie, as there was almost nowhere more dangerous for Mycroft than the confines of his own mind, but he could lie if he wanted to. It would help. Besides, he had had a lot of practice lying to Neil throughout the years.

\--------------------

The dreadful monotone that Sherlock used to inform him about Neil Gibson's relationship with Mycroft was almost as chilling as the words the younger man used to describe the psychopath.  Not much unnerved the younger Holmes, but this seemed to be a rare case.  Usually when Sherlock rattled off details and information he did so in that damnable "look at me, aren't I so very clever" voice that every single Yarder in Lestrade's division had grown to hate.  The cold, detached manner in which he spoke about Mycroft and Neil's "relationship" was a far cry from his usual self-aggrandizing cadence and tone.  The young man sounded almost unwilling to recognize his own words.

And the words "broken" and "Mycroft" put together weren't doing anything to stem the rapidly expanding pit of dread growing in the DI's stomach.  Breakable wasn't something he had ever considered the politician to be... at least not until this conversation.  And had it been said by anyone other than Sherlock, Greg still might not have believed it.  Mycroft was... well... solid.  As much of a stoic, implacable force of nature as he was a man.  Greg knew, even previous to the events of the past two days, that Mycroft wasn't nearly as icy as his cold business persona.  No, the handsome politician had a much greater emotional range that he presented; his actions over the past two years towards Sherlock belied that. Simply put, nobody would put up with someone as stubborn, insufferable and occasionally hateful as Sherlock could be to Mycroft without loving them.

Thinking of him as 'broken' caused a sharp lance of pain to flash through the DI's chest.  What could this Neil guy have over Mycroft that was so awful it would cause the well put together man to come apart at the seams?   _Sadist.  Sociopath._  The words echoed through Greg's head, increasing his already almost-unbearable level of worry.  in a way it was unsurprising; anyone that would kidnap Sherlock and demand that Mycroft divorce himself from everything in his life he cared about ( _work, family, dare I hope to include myself on that list?_ ) had to be nothing short of evil.  To think that Mycroft had spent two years of his early life, years that should have been happy, under the man's thumb... well.  The thoughts that ran through him replaced the lance of anxious pain in his chest with the smoldering burn of rage.

Now Greg wondered if perhaps the frigid presentation was something more than a solid business tactic.  Emotionally and psychologically abusive, Sherlock had said.  It was hard enough to keep calm after that.  Upon hearing that the man had not only stalked Mycroft across the past several years of the man's life, but had also arranged a car accident to hurt him, possibly to kill him?  Greg knew that his fists were knotted up in the thin, scratchy hospital sheets, knew that his jaw was clenched in anger, knew that Sherlock would recognize all the signs of his more-than-professional sense of rage.  Upon reflection, he was only mildly surprised to realize that he didn't much care.  Let the detective think what he wanted.  Greg would deal with Sherlock and the inevitable onslaught of resistance to his relationship with his older brother later.  For now, the younger Holmes' reaction was at the very bottom of the DI's rather extended list of things to worry about.

"Must've been about two years ago," Lestrade mused.  "I don't remember any accident, but he did walk with just a touch of a limp when I first met him.  And don't be a complete git.  I won't arrest you.  Just please do try not to kill anyone, ok?" _Especially Neil.  That fucker is **mine**_.   He knew Sherlock could likely read the words as plain as day on Greg's face, but again, couldn't find it in himself to care.  The younger man's vibrant, absinthe-colored eyes were piercing, but if he noticed the obvious rage on Lestrade's face he said nothing in return.

"As for anything that he told me before he left, there's not much.  He was fine throughout the shooting, and after my surgery.  Then some flowers got delivered, with a letter in them; he has the letter, Anthea removed the flowers from the room.  After that, it all happened pretty rapidly.  Minutes after that we got word that you were kidnapped, and he sort of... went cold?  It's the best way I can think of to describe it.  He had me suspended, took me off the case, and essentially told me never to contact him again.  After that, he disappeared for a few minutes in which I met with Anthea.  He must not have gone far because he was back in my room after about half an hour or so.  At first he was just mad, but he got a message on his phone and... well... he pretty much collapsed.  Almost like he had a catatonic fit or something.  It only lasted a few minutes, but..." Greg let his voice trail off as he tried to fight down the tightening pressure building in his throat.

"After that he was just sad.  Quiet.  Resigned.  Oh, he tried to make it sound like he believed he was going to come out of this unscathed, but...  he was saying his goodbyes to me, Sherlock.  I don't think he's planning on making it out of this.  He gave me his phone to turn over to Anthea, said he didn't think Neil would take him out of the country, and asked me not to tell you Neil's name.  Then he was gone."  Now he understood the completely empty tone Sherlock had adopted earlier when relaying past information about his brother and Neil.  Had Lestrade been capable of producing the same level of apathy he certainly would have embraced it at that moment.  Reviewing the facts had caused his heart to ache so badly he thought that nurses would flood the room in a matter of seconds, thinking he was dying from the readouts on his heart monitor.  But nothing happened, so Greg took a deep, steadying breath and continued to push forward.  

"If you want, I'm sure we could get someone to bring us the flowers for you to look at if they haven't already been disposed of.  And I'm sure you've hacked your brother's phone before... maybe you could see what he received that made him collapse like that?"  Brown eyes winced at that statement; he was uncertain he wanted to know what had triggered the collapse and was quite certain he didn't want Sherlock to see, as it obviously had to do with him, but any clue was too valuable to pass up at this point.  Now for his questions to the dark haired detective.  Whether or not he actually wanted to know the answers, he needed them to move forward, to plan for Mycroft's recovery after his retrieval.

"Now tell me what you meant when you said that he might not be himself when we get him back?  Jesus, Sherlock.  How bad is it going to be?  And..." his voice faltered, uncertain.  But the thought of Mycroft, alone and subjected to unbearable mental and emotional pressure, cemented Lestrade's resolve.  "Well.  Ah.  You said he's been through this before.  Broken.  What... what do we do to fix it?  To help him?"

\--------------------

"Oh Mycroft, I promise I have no plans of leaving you under-stimulated at all.  I've always been able to give you more than enough to think about, haven't I?"  Neil's voice was smooth and silken, mirroring the brush of the pad of his thumb against the inside of Mycroft's still-captive wrist.  The slight sag in Mycroft's shoulders, the faintest hints of a slouch creeping up that long, lovely spine were the subtle indicators he had been waiting for.  His lovely politician was finally succumbing to the constant pressures of the last several hours.  Perfect.   A bit more pressure in the right places and Neil knew he could start to fracture Mycroft's psyche, turning fault lines into gaping chasms of doubt and self loathing.  Still, if he moved too soon Mycroft would simply harden against the constant assault.  No, as tempting as it was to keep scratching away at the inside of the man's mind, a break at this point would do more damage than more cruel words.

"Now one last thing."  Neil continued to caress the delicate skin on the inside of Mycroft's wrist before running his hand up the politician's arm, fingers trailing lightly over the fine cloth of his shirtsleeve.  "You might want to sit down for this part."  He motioned to one of the chairs at the dining table, pleased when Mycroft numbly followed the order.  Poor thing must still have been in shock, imagining what could possibly be waiting for him in that refrigerator.  Neil gave it about twelve hours before the man finally broke down and opened his equivalent of Pandora's Box.

As Mycroft sat, Neil moved to stand behind him; strong, tan hands moved around to the front of Mycroft's shirt, loosening his tie and undoing the very top button of his collar.  Once he had the access he desired the blonde pulled his hands back, pressing a broad palm to the back of the politician's head.  With gentle pressure, Neil forced the other man to bend his neck to the point where his chin was almost touching his chest.  It couldn't have been comfortable, especially with his wounded arm, but it was necessary.  Softly, he rolled the pad of one thumb along the bones of Mycroft's neck, stopping at the crest of where the end of the cervical and beginning of the thoracic vertebrae met.  Wordlessly, he held his other hand out, and his bodyguard stepped into the room, producing a small pocket knife which he handed to Neil.

"This might hurt pet," he murmured, sliding the sharp tip just millimeters into the flesh just underneath the curve of bone.  After a moment of digging, he angled the knife carefully, using the point to lever out a small rice shaped microchip.  "Clever really.  I mean, I know they chip purebreds to help ward off dog theft, but I didn't think that the government had gone so far as use the same tactics as breeders."  He handed the bloodied chip and knife off to his bodyguard, who obediently bagged them both before walking back off down the hallway.  "Your toy is going to go on a bit of a field trip before it ends up in the Thames."  Leaning over, the criminal pressed his lips to the back of Mycroft's neck, sucking almost lovingly at the lightly bleeding wound.

"Stand up," he ordered, teeth bared in an almost-smile.  As Mycroft complied the blonde pulled the barrier of the chair away and stepped forward with one measured stride, devouring the remaining space between them.  His chest was flush against Mycroft's back and he could positively feel the slight increase of his breathing, feel the desperate, rapid thud of the man's heart vibrating through him.  Neil placed one hand on the younger man's hip, and hummed in appreciation at the slightest of cringes that the gesture produced in the other man.

"Now, give us a kiss Mikey," he purred, leaning his head forward and pressing his lips against the exposed skin between politician's loosened shirt collar and the sharp line of his jaw.  After the lightest brush against the sensitive flesh Neil pulled back imperceptibly, allowing Mycroft to feel the stretch of the sick grin spreading over his face.  He moved the hand not on Mycroft's hip and placed it on the politician's shoulder, ready to turn him around, when the sharp chime of Neil's mobile rang through the otherwise silent air.

"Well, maybe next time," he murmured in Mycroft's ear, allowing his lips to brush against his lobe before pulling away completely and turning around.  "Now try not to get too bored, Mikey.  I have a meeting, but I'll be back for you in a few hours or so.  Until then, pet, make yourself at home!"  He let his voice sing out through the mostly empty room before turning on his well shod heel, enjoying the sound of the thick steel door as it clicked into place.

\--------------------

Greg was upset, furious even. Sherlock could see the signs easily, eyes raking over the DI as he quickly and carefully catalogued, though it was really unnecessary this time. It was plain to anyone nearby that Greg was absolutely incensed by the information Sherlock was giving him, by the very thought of Neil and everything he'd done. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at this thought, brows contracting slightly. He would have to figure out lately what exactly had happened to bring the DI this close to his brother. Last time he'd checked, they hadn't even been friends, really. Acquaintances, perhaps. But certainly not close enough that Greg would want to murder Neil for what he'd done and was continuing to do. No, Sherlock nearly laughed when Greg told him not to kill anyone. He wasn't in danger of that; Greg was.

At the news of the letter that came with the flowers, Sherlock's eyes darkened. Of course. A way to introduce himself, a way to make demands. He knew without having seen the bouquet that they were the same flowers that had been delivered to his brother's hospital room after his accident. He thought he'd smelled a faint whiff of freesia earlier, the scent calling up memories of Mycroft lying unconscious in a bed, Sherlock coming back to see him at odd hours of the night when he was taking a break from his 'rage-induced revenge spiral' as Mycroft had dubbed it. He'd never managed to find Neil, and had been enraged when he found out the man had hand delivered the flowers to Mycroft's room when Sherlock wasn't there and Mycroft was still comatose. Few people truly incited Sherlock's need for revenge, but Neil was one of them. And apparently this time he wasn't alone in his murderous intent.

The news that his brother had gone cold after reading the letter didn't surprise him. Neil would have told him to cut off all personal attachments, and what that really meant was cutting Greg out of his life. Taking Greg off the case had been professional--protecting himself and his operations--while having Mycroft act so cold to him had been personal. Sherlock really had to wonder what sort of misplaced jealousy Neil felt upon seeing that Mycroft was with someone else. Maybe it was more possessiveness than any real sort of emotion; a feeling of 'this is my toy, so you can't have it'. Sickening, really. Growing up, Mycroft had been an immutable force, a consistent, strong presence that may have been suffocatingly overbearing at times, but was still reliable, invariable, independent. The thought of anyone owning his brother at that time had been laughable, which only made it harder as Sherlock saw the gradual descent in Mycroft brought on by Neil. Neil truly had possessed him at that time. And he hadn't really let go.

Sherlock noted Greg's slight wince as he talked about the message Mycroft had received on his phone that made him go nearly catatonic. Greg didn't want him to see it, then. It was probably a threat to him, something that had happened while he was kidnapped and passed out. He could feel the stirrings of anger in the pit of his stomach, a feeling similar to the one that had possessed him after he'd found out about Mycroft's 'accident'. Greg was honestly lucky Sherlock was currently confined to a hospital bed and dependent on others for his information. Otherwise he'd already be gone, and Greg would be left to worry and wonder in a hospital bed until Sherlock dragged Mycroft back in. Though hopefully his older brother would retain himself enough to come back without being dragged.

He could hear the hesitation in Greg's question and thought with a sense of detachment that it was probably warranted. Greg really wasn't going to want to hear his answers to those questions. "I can't predict how Mycroft will act upon his return. After the first time..." His baritone trailed off and he closed his eyes for a second, searching his mind for the exact memories he was looking for, left abandoned on a particularly dusty shelf in a dim room labeled 'Mycroft'. His eyes moved beneath his lids as he started speaking again, voice low and rapid-fire. "After the first time I don't know how he patched himself up, mostly just completely shut out the entire world, including me, buried his head in his work, didn't date, didn't socialize, didn't do anything but work and eat and keep breathing. He didn't talk to anyone beyond a polite 'hi how are you doing' to which his answer was always 'fine' and for once in his life wasn't incessantly peering over my shoulder to see how I was and what I was doing."

His eyes opened again, the bright fluorescent lights making them look brighter, intense as his gaze locked on Greg again. "My brother's mental health isn't my area of expertise, you'd have better luck asking Anthea the same question, though I doubt she knows. Mycroft isn't exactly **open** with his emotions, though he used to be very different when we were young..." His voice trailed off here, becoming a murmur, before he snapped back into awareness a second later. Thinking about their childhood wasn't going to help, at the moment. "I can tell you that he'll try to shut down when we recover him. He'll avoid human contact, try to withdraw back into his own head. If you really want to help him, you must not let him do that under any circumstances. It will only encourage him to deny what happened."

"I'll need both the flowers and the phone if I'm to start an investigation, though it's doubtful that Anthea will want to hand them over. You'll have to request them, not me," Sherlock said, suddenly snapping into detective mode for a moment, his brain having wandered off into the investigation while he was talking to Greg. He stayed silent for a minute, mind already working away at hacking into Mycroft's phone, and then he turned his eyes back to Greg, something foreboding in their depths. "Of course, there's always the possibility that he won't want to come back." The look in Greg's eyes nearly stopped him there, strong enough to make him reconsider his words for once, but Greg had wanted honesty and this was painfully honest.

"Neil Gibson is a poisonous snake, a dangerous threat to Mycroft's mind and wellbeing. He will try to slither into my brother's head and nest where he used to, feed him lies and insecurities until he feels that he can safely manipulate Mycroft the way he used to. They may resume a physical relationship again, as it will make Neil feel more in control and serve to further disrupt Mycroft. As a result, Mycroft may be returned to the state of mind where he believes he needs Neil." He scoffed at this, a soft noise of disdain. "I don't know why my brother ever took up with him in the first place...we might have to drag him back here, kicking and screaming bloody murder." His eyes flashed back to Greg's, a challenge. "Are you prepared for that?"

\--------------------

Mycroft knew there was no point in fighting Neil, and so didn't bother to. That was at least the excuse he gave himself though he could feel the resignation that was settling along his shoulders in a thick shroud, making them drop from their usual stiff posture. He followed Neil's directions and sat, purposefully avoiding looking at the fridge that loomed in the edge of his vision. He didn't want to think about that right now. He didn't want to think about anything right now. Maybe that was why he obeyed Neil's orders calmly, not even showing any sign of panic when he felt the cut into the lower part of the back of his neck.

The pain felt nice in a way, actually. A little anchor to keep him from completely drifting off into the apathy that was currently threatening to turn his entire world gray. He did regret the loss of the microchip--a failsafe he had been counting on to assist his team--but it only made sense that Neil would have thought of everything. The man was too smart for his own good. Well, no, he was too smart for Mycroft's good. He nearly shivered when Neil sucked on the incision at the back of his neck, the touch familiar and unwelcome.

And yet when Neil ordered him to stand up, he obeyed again, even though he knew where this was headed. Still, he couldn't help the sharp intake of breath when Neil was suddenly pressed close to him again, causing his pulse to start fluttering out of control. It had been years, and still he was terrified of him. How was that possible? How was it possible that this one man could hold so much of a sway in his life? Mycroft was successful now. He was firmly entrenched in the government, had Sherlock's addiction under control for the most part, and had been forming a connection -- of what depth he wasn't sure -- with Greg, lovely, sweet Greg, and then Neil had shown up. And suddenly everything was back to the way it had been years ago, as evidenced by his slight wince at the hand on his hip.

God, he hated himself for this, as Neil's lips brushed along his neck. He wondered if it would be better to give in, reciprocate, placate Neil for the time being, or go practically catatonic and let the apathy swallow him. They both had their own pros and cons, and he was in the middle of considering them both when Neil's mobile went off, and, blessedly the man pulled away and -- _thankgodthankgodthankgod_ \-- left. With a promise to be back later, but still, Mycroft was alone for the time being, and he allowed his shoulders to relax a little as he turned to sit on the edge of the bed, his fatigue getting to him. He hadn't slept at all since that half hour taken at Greg's bedside, and he was starting to feel it now. But the last thing he wanted to do was fall asleep here, in this place, where Neil could easily come in on him sleeping and-

He rubbed his face with his hand and lifted his head, his gaze landing on the fridge. He instantly felt hungry. Well, that made the decision for him; he had to sleep or he was going to end up opening that fridge, and that would be disastrous, and giving Neil exactly what he wanted. Besides, the nap would give his arm time to rest and heal, as it was already starting to throb with pain and would surely be worse in a few hours. He'd made a decision on what to do but he still didn't move, staying perfectly still on the end of the bed, brain whirring away. After a minute he pulled out his phone and watched the video of Sherlock being recovered. It set him slightly at ease, even though he could see how battered and bruised his baby brother was. At least he knew he was alright. That this was worth it.

He sighed and got up, putting the phone on the table next to its charger, and slipped off his shoes. He climbed under the covers of the big bed, having to awkwardly maneuver his injured arm before he settled on his back, the fridge in the dead center of his vision. He closed his eyes against the sight, turning his thoughts to Sherlock, safe now, and Greg and the date they'd shared earlier. He fell asleep with the memory of how soft Greg's lips had been against his own.

\--------------------

"I'll see what I can do about the phone and the flowers," he said gruffly, mind still gravitating towards Sherlock's stomach-churning cautions about Mycroft's potential state of mind during his captivity and his (hopefully inevitable) return.  The thought of the man needing to be dragged away from Neil 'kicking and screaming', as Sherlock put it, very nearly made Greg sick.  He fought down a wave of nausea that he hoped had more to do with the pain and the medication than he actually thought it did.  

"As for the rest of what you said, just... Just give me a moment."  The idea of Mycroft in a physical relationship with the abusive, psychotic fuck caused him to clench his jaw so hard that it actually started to tingle.  What the fuck could the bastard have done ( _or currentlybe doing_ , his mind added unhelpfully) to Mycroft that would cause such a complete and total personality change in the man?  Jesus.  Greg had considered a lot of terrible options, but the brutality necessary to warp Mycroft's mindset so completely that he'd **want** to stay with Neil was something that hadn't crossed his mind.  The thought of what the politician could be going through rapidly filled him with an anxious urgency to retrieve the man **immediately**.  Rather than spending any more time dwelling on things he couldn't do anything about, he picked up his phone and started to text Anthea.

**Sherlock is awake.  Needs access to the flowers and Mycroft's cell so we can track him down.  I know you're not supposed to be helping us, but unless your team has honed in on his location I really think you should let us help.  It's not like either one of us is going anywhere at the moment.  Please.  We've got to get him back as soon as possible.**

After a moment's reflection and a soft, painful wave of heartache he typed out another, far more personal message.

**Sherlock's let me know what Mycroft's state of mind could possibly be when we do get him back.  It's going to be bad.  Worse than I could have imagined.  Sherlock suggested that I ask you for suggestions on how to treat him when we get him back.**

This was **so** not what he wanted to do.  But it was... well... it was what Mycroft likely needed.  Someone who knew what he had been through without the politician having to go over the brutal details.  The more he understood, the less likely it was that he'd make mistakes that would damage Mycroft even more.

**He said that he might have to be dragged back against his will.  Seriously... Stockholm Syndrome?**

**Anthea, seriously, what the fuck.  This is worse than I could possibly have imagined.  Tell me what is going on.  Tell me what this guy does to him, please.  I need to know.  So I know how to fix it.  If I even can.  You're my best shot at succeeding.  Please.  Help me help him come out of this.**

With the texts sent, Lestrade turned his attention back to Sherlock.  "I've requested the phone and the flowers.  I expect Anthea will find a way to have them delivered to us."  He sighed, raking a hand through his hair, desperately wishing for something (someone) to hit.

"As for the other part... I.  Well.  I asked her for more details, ideas, anything she can provide that might help us as part of Mycroft's recovery.  The more I... I mean we know, the better we can handle this.  I can't say I'm prepared for this, Sherlock.  Who the fuck could be?    But I'm in this for as deep as I need to go, and as long as I need to be."

"Look.  You're... well... you're **you**.  You have to have figured out that something happened between your brother and me, right?  I can't... look, it wasn't much.  I don't know what it is or if it even is anything at all.  But... I care about him Sherlock.  And I'll do anything, anything at all to help him.  Please know that."

\--------------------

As Neil took the lift back upstairs, he pulled his mobile out of his jacket pocket.  An almost-fond smile crossed his lips as he pulled up the feed from the security camera installed in Mycroft's 'room'.  There was something indescribably satisfying about watching the normally self-possessed man come unraveled.  Mycroft wasn't exactly coming apart at the seams yet, but he was certainly starting to fray at the edges.  Though the resolution wasn't clear enough to actually see them, Neil's mind's eye knew exactly how those gray blue eyes would look (lost, haunted, and full of just a touch of self-loathing) as he purposefully avoided looking at the fridge.

The criminal tapped the tips of his fingers against his lips, savoring the memory of the soft skin they had so recently been pressed against.  It was always a test of his self control, to not just simply waltz in and take what he wanted from the auburn haired man.  But as frustrating as it could be, it was always so, so much sweeter to take his time.  To make Mycroft want it; crave the intimacy that they once had.  It helped that the politician stayed largely isolated.  Though he pretended to be above such things, Mycroft craved human companionship and physical touch as much as the next person, if not more so.  There was something so satisfying about softly, slowly reminding the isolated, lonely man just how deeply that need ran.  After a few days of casual yet still intimate touches the younger man would very nearly melt into him.  Especially when deprived of any other stimulus.

Green eyes tightened with something akin to jealousy as Mycroft pulled out his mobile, presumably to watch the video of Sherlock's 'rescue'.  Neil made a mental note to have the phone taken away and the video removed before it was returned to his captive.  It wouldn't do to have something positive for Mycroft to focus his thoughts on.  Anything that might give him a buffer against his own self-doubt and help him fight against the inward spiral of his inevitable depression needed to be stripped away.  Neil wanted Mycroft with nothing better to do but batter himself helplessly against the walls inside his head.

And that presented the final kink in Neil's otherwise flawless plan.  Other than Sherlock, who had been a constant far before the blonde's interference, nothing existed in Mycroft's mind that Neil didn't at least have a few fingers in.  Except this new development... this Gregory Lestrade.   As he watched Mycroft slip off his shoes and maneuver himself into bed, Neil laced his fingers under his chin.  The barely there smile on his captive's thin lips bespoke of exactly why this was going to be a problem.  Something about Greg was different than Mycroft's previous liaisons.  Odd; he wouldn't have pegged the DI as being the one to scale the politician's defensive walls, especially not after they knew each other for two years without so much as a hint of anything beyond professionalism.  Well, at least not on Mycroft's part.  Lestrade's crush on the politician had been building for some time, but seemed inconsequential as long as it remained unrequited.

This past evening, however, something had changed.  The difference in Mycroft's demeanor was drastic.  It shouldn't have pained the auburn haired man so much to cut off contact with the scruffy officer, but for some reason it did.  Fortunate for Neil, then, that the opportunity presented itself to take care of the silver haired man's intrusion on his territory both personally and professionally.  The only shame was that the assassination attempt had failed  It would have been better for Neil's design overall for Lestrade to be entirely out of the picture. It would have given Mycroft less hope to hold onto.  Then again, it did offer the blonde the opportunity to foster that hope before snatching it away.

Yes, perhaps that was the way to go with this.  Green eyes watched sharply as Mycroft's breathing steadied and slowed.  He couldn't be so obvious as to dispose of Gregory without provocation; it would simply anger Mycroft and make him less, not more tractable.  That left plenty of other opportunities, though.  After all, they were playing a dangerous game.  It was inevitable that people were going to get caught in the crossfire.  And it was inevitable that before Mycroft Holmes was able to be fully and completely broken, Gregory Lestrade and the hope he represented had to die.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft and Neil get reacquainted, Sherlock gets some insight into Neil's methods of persuasion, and Greg balances worry with determination.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter are: eating disorders, kidnapping, mentions of human trafficking, mentions of drug use, emotional abuse / manipulation, blackmail, unwelcome sexual advances, elements of dub-con, general psychopathy, and the usual dose of heavy angst.

Sherlock had to fight down the slight wrinkle of displeasure that threatened to ripple over his face at the mention of Greg and his brother having formed some sort of 'connection' during the previous night. The thought of his brother and his brother's watchdog for him in some sort of relationship? He nearly shuddered. Then check-ups on him would be more frequent and Mycroft would have an excuse to show up at crime scenes just to see Greg. Awful. Just awful.

But now was not the time to think about that. Now was the time for facts and evidence and deductions and analysis, detachment from emotional reactions in order to focus. Focus. He needed a clarity of mind for this that the lingering drugs in his system might actually be able to provide. Heroin was invented to be an alternative for morphine, after all, and there was a good chance there was some of it still in his system along with the morphine they'd given him for the pain. Perfect. Fantastic.

His brows contracted slightly at the thought of Anthea; the composed brunette wasn't exactly going to be thrilled with his involvement in this, especially not if it meant admitting that they had no leads and that he was their best bet at finding Mycroft **quickly**. Which yes, yes he was, actually. Given access to the flowers and phone he could track down Mycroft's location with hopefully enough ease that they found his older brother within reasonable time. Before Neil destroyed him again. Sherlock retracted into his own thoughts again as Greg's mobile buzzed, surely Anthea texting him a confirmation about sending the flowers.

\-------------------

In fact, she had practically written him a novel:

**Detective Lestrade, I will have the flowers sent to you but I cannot promise you the mobile just yet. As soon as my team is finished getting all they can out of it it will be passed on to Sherlock for his perusal, but only on the condition that neither of you even thinks about leaving this hospital. You're both still recovering, and Mycroft would throw a fit if he found out I let either one of you out before you'd had proper time to heal. I promised Mycroft I wouldn't let either one of you get involved in the search for him but I'm afraid his safety overrides his concerns. I can't involve you in an official capacity because you've been suspended from the Yard, but if Sherlock wants to involve you in his investigation, I won't stop it. We all need to work together to make sure we find him and he's safe. Make sure Sherlock remembers that that is the priority, and not a revenge spree. As for Mycroft's condition...well, he hasn't exactly shared with me about his time with Neil, but I do know a few things, and I'm sure he doesn't want anyone to know about them, but...I trust you, Greg. And I know you're only looking out for him. So here goes.**

**Firstly, yes, Stockholm Syndrome is a possibility. Neil and Mycroft dated for two years, that's a lot of serious time spent together where Mycroft was in that altered state of mind. Plus he never really had a separation from Neil because of Neil's continued stalking, so, sadly, the man has basically been a constant force in his life. And that force wasn't always bad to him, or Mycroft wouldn't have stayed in the relationship for that long. So most likely Neil will try to get back into Mycroft's head, into his life, into him, because it will bind Mycroft back to him, and Mycroft Holmes is a powerful ally to have. Beyond that, Neil is just...possessive of him. Like he's a prize to be won. Mycroft will start to see himself as an object again, as some tool to be used by Neil as Neil sees fit. The best way you can bring him back out of that type of depression is just remind him how much he's worth, remind him how many people love him and are supporting him. The mental aspect of it will be a lot harder to fix than the physical aspect of it. Don't tell Sherlock this, because Mycroft swore he'd never know and has hidden it from him thus far, but Mycroft has struggled with an eating disorder since he was 18. His weight constantly fluctuates because he's caught between too little and too much and goes through cycles where he doesn't eat at all because it makes his life easier. It's almost killed him more than once, especially with the damage he does to his body by binging and purging like that. I'm sure Neil started it somehow, he has some atrocious effect on Mycroft's self-esteem, but he's been dealing with it for so long that it's just become a part of him now. I've had to pick up the pieces for him a few times, and it gets harder for him every time. He's...he's just going to be an emotional wreck when he gets out of this, and just you being there to support him will help. He really does care about you, you know.**

**\-------------------**

Sherlock snapped back out of his trance-like state only once the flowers were brought to his room, and at that point he didn't have any attention to spare for Greg, all of it focused on the bouquet in front of him. Ah. Yes. Lilies and freesia. A microphone hidden in the middle, how lovely. He destroyed that as soon as he found it, knowing there was no way to gain any information from it, and then went back to searching. Not anything useful to be gained here, though it might have been polite of him to mention to the nurse who delivered these originally that her current shampoo was draining the color from her hair and she should switch to sulfate free. Niceties. They weren't important at the moment, finding his brother was, and this wasn't helping.

"The mobile," he mumbled, and his eyes shot back to Greg's, his volume increasing. "I need his mobile. And yes, I know. I know you care about my brother or what have you, I suppose I myself might have a slight tolerance for him, but caring won't help us at the moment. If you're going to work with me on this I need you to detach yourself from this case entirely, am I very clear? And I'll need his mobile."

**\-------------------**

He knew he was dreaming from the beginning but that didn't make it any better. Somehow that made it seem worse. Because, after all, it had started out nicely. He'd been on a boat for some reason, a rowboat out in the middle of the lake, with Greg, and Greg was explaining to him very calmly and rationally why noir films should be used as training videos for the Yard recruits and Mycroft was smiling and nodding along because the argument made perfect sense in the dream. And then their boat suddenly came to a stop, and when Mycroft reached his hand into the water to see what was wrong, he found Sherlock.

Floating. Dead. Undead. Did it matter? He was there, in the water, with eyes gone milky white and dead to the world and the water wasn't water at all but a sea of needles and Mycroft was trying to sort things out still when Sherlock reached up, grabbed him, and pulled him in. The sensation of being stabbed with thousands of needles didn't appear, though. In its place was a soft touch, a kiss to his neck, warm words in a voice he remembered. Green eyes, always so pretty, like emeralds. Neil. He was dreaming about Neil. Fuck. But Neil wasn't Neil, Neil was Greg with green eyes and Mycroft was trying to keep the two straight as Greg/Neil said Neil's words in Greg's voice. Y _ou don't have a heart. You don't deserve to be loved. You don't deserve anything._ And again, that kiss to his neck, that soft touch, and he found himself dropping to the floor under the weight of it all, coming to lie next to poor, dead, (undead?), Sherlock.

He was nearly panting by the time he woke up. Mycroft was sure his clothing was coated in sweat, the blanket having been thrown off sometime when he was unconscious, everything feeling too hot and too confined and definitely too gray all around and Jesus Christ that had hurt. That had almost physically hurt. He was having trouble breathing, and it didn't help that now that his eyes were open all he could see was that fucking fridge.

His body was screaming out for comfort food, begging him for just a little sugar to take the edge off after something like that, when his arm was throbbing with pain, and Mycroft wanted to give in. He desperately, desperately wanted to give in and just give his body what it wanted. Instead, he sat up in the bed and opened the phone Neil had given him, intent on watching the video of Sherlock again to comfort himself. It was gone. He checked, rechecked; gone. Fucking Neil. Fucking Neil had decided that he couldn't have any type of comfort in his life, anything to help him stay sane at all. Jesus.

He rubbed his eyes with his hand, perhaps a little harder than necessary, as he tried to calm his rabbit heartbeat. He hated Neil for this, he truly did. He could have been home right now, safe and sound, watching over Sherlock again through CCTV cameras and computer screens, or maybe out with Greg, enjoying himself. Anywhere but here. Here, where he wanted to fold himself up inside his mind and never come out, give in to Neil's soft touches and awful, awful advances because he needed something to comfort himself and his only other option was sugar. God.

He looked at the fridge again, one, two, three beats, and then looked away again, putting his mobile back on the table. It wouldn't help to sit here and feel sorry for himself; no, he had to come up with a plan. He had to try and figure out a way out of this, a compromise, perhaps. So he looked straight into the nearest security camera, knowing Neil was listening, and said quite calmly, "Neil, I want to talk."

\-------------------

Neil had planned on getting some actual work done while waiting for Mycroft to rest up.  There were always things to do, and crime never slept.  A threatening e-mail here, a personal touch on a blackmail there; it was what kept the entire machine well oiled and running smoothly.  After all, getting Brixton's disparate gang societies to work together had been no small feat; the only thing they hated more than each other was the threat of a well organized outside force removing them from their territories.  Business mergers, he had called it.  Unifying under one larger umbrella of supply and protection for the common benefit of all.  A criminal collective, of sorts.  With a 'join us or die' directive.  It had been difficult at first, but after enough disappearances, dismemberments, eviscerations and defenestrations folks got the picture and settled into their new roles.  Still, petty criminals had egos to be massaged or shattered as needs dictated, and while he did have some spectacular "HR consultants", there were few things that Neil enjoyed more than being able to provide that 'personal touch' he was so well known for to some of his especially stubborn or bright underlings.

But it was hard to focus on anything when Mycroft Holmes insisted on making those delicious whimpering noises in his sleep.  Halfway through a rather nasty e-mail to one of the Russian syndicate members that had overstepped his bounds, he simply gave up.  Describing what he was going to have done to the man's already-captive sister wasn't nearly as entertaining as watching his auburn haired captive in the throes of what appeared to be a rather devastating nightmare.  The poor politician had managed to writhe out from underneath his blanket completely and was sprawled at a most uncomfortable angle.  Neil smiled, just thinking about how much Mycroft's wounded shoulder would be hurting him when he woke.  

Suddenly the younger man woke, panting, almost on the verge of a panic attack.  Neil smiled thoughtfully as he watched Mycroft's grey blue eyes dart around the room, desperately trying to avoid honing in on the fridge full of mysterious goods.  For a moment, it seemed like the man was going to break, and Neil found himself holding his breath in anticipation of Mycroft's reaction when he reached for his mobile instead.  Fine brows knitted and Neil bit back a laugh at the flood of expressions that crossed his captive's face when he realized that the clip of Sherlock had been removed.

When Mycroft rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, Neil couldn't help but loose a chuckle.  It was significantly harder to make the man cry nowadays than it was back at Uni, and he considered each hard-fought tear a personal victory. But instead of breaking down, Mycroft seemed to compose himself somewhat, setting his phone back on the table and ignoring the fridge (albeit after a bit of a struggle).  His captive then glared directly up at the security camera and made his demand.

_"Neil, I want to talk."_

To most people it wouldn't have seemed like a great victory, but Neil Gibson knew differently.  He had watched Mycroft toss and turn, very nearly sobbing in his sleep.  Upon waking and finding that the video of his precious brother's rescue had been removed from his phone, the man was at one of those pivotal breaking points.  With only two sources of comfort available to him, he'd have to choose the lesser of two evils, and he chose Neil's presence over the lure of stress eating.  While it wasn't much, it was a small but significant acquiescence; an actual choice on Mycroft's part to seek out Neil.  And just after a few hours!  Such good behavior from his pet politician!  And good behavior deserved to be rewarded.  Fishing a bottle of pills from the top drawer of his desk, he slipped them into his jacket pocket with a smile and a pleased hum.

"Seems I'm no longer on the bottom rung of the desirables ladder," he commented to his bodyguard as he left the makeshift office and boarded the freight lift.  A short walk, quick swipe of a keycard, and one thudding door bolt later he was granted access to his captive's room.  Mycroft sat on the edge of his bed, looking absolutely despondent despite his desperate attempts at appearing calm.  Before the politician could get a word in edgewise, Neil strode into the room, crossing the distance between them with powerful strides and depositing himself next to Mycroft on the mattress.

"Oh, Mycroft," he murmured, running his hand up Mycroft's arm before carding his fingers through the sweat-dampened auburn hair at the nape of his neck.  "What can I do for you pet?"

\-------------------

The information in Anthea's message weighed on Greg heavily.  It was almost too much to process.  He'd never have guessed that Mycroft was in such pain, had experienced such turmoil.  The man always seemed to be the definition of serenity.  And it wasn't like Lestrade was a stranger to people having rough backgrounds.  No, he had experience in that area.  More than he'd care to admit.  But it didn't hold a candle to the ongoing years of torture and abuse that Mycroft had been subjected to.  The thought made him violently angry and nearly physically sick.  What kind of absolutely depraved fuck would look at someone like Mycroft Holmes and decide that he needed to be taken apart completely?

He didn't have much time to contemplate his level of horror, as Sherlock was immediately back to yelling at him, demanding that Lestrade both procure the mobile and effectively stop having feelings.  Greg desperately wanted to snap at the younger man, point out that having an emotional investment in finding Mycroft would make him work harder and therefore be an asset, but he bit the comments back.  There was no arguing with the dark haired detective when it came to matters of the heart.  At first he had tried to display patience at crime scenes, when Sherlock deduced what had happened but seemed to be boggled by the motives.  It was the worst on domestic homicides.  Seriously, the man's view of love was either horribly warped or non-existent, which was unsurprising that he seemed to have garnered everything he knew about relationships from corpses.  Still, trying to explain to the younger Holmes brother for the millionth time that emotion wasn't necessarily a detriment wouldn't help Mycroft any, and that's where his priorities lay.  After all, someday the brilliant, difficult git'd find someone that made him all topsy turvy, but until then it'd be damn unlikely that anyone would change his mind about the empowering benefits of sentiment.

"Right.  Detatched.  Fine."  If he growled his agreement, well it just couldn't be helped.  He might have to play by Sherlock's emotionally stunted rules, but it didn't mean he had to like it.  "Anthea said she can't get us the mobile yet.  Her team is still using it, they're going to pass it along as soon as they're finished.  We've also been forbidden to leave the hospital.  Not like either one of us is capable of getting out of bed right now," he gave a dry laugh.  "Not like you'd let that stop you, but please do stay put.  I'll have to haul my sorry carcass after you if you decide to go haring off, and that's going to be far more troublesome than you want to deal with right now.

"And good lord, there's no need to shout.  I'm only half a room away!  As for the phone, hm.  We've a couple of options.  I could have Sally bring you my laptop, and maybe you could use that to get into his online records from the mobile company?  The other is... well...  I don't know, but can you clone a cell phone without having access to the SIM card?"  Sherlock's venomous glare answered that question for him better than words ever could have.

"Right, look.  How was I supposed to know?  We've got a whole division for that so I don't have to worry about the tech stuff.  Well.  Before you go and kill me with your eyes alone, I'll get back with Anthea about the damn mobile, ok?"

**Sherlock is being Sherlock.  Impatient, crankier than usual.  I suppose it's his way of showing he cares.  Any chance you could either turn Mycroft's mobile over sooner, or clone it and give us the copy?  We're at a dead end with the flowers, and if I don't give him something to work on he's liable to drag himself out of bed and start analyzing footprints or something.**

After a moment's consideration, and a glance at Sherlock to make sure the young detective had retreated back into his mind palace and wouldn't notice Greg's blatant disregard for the "sentiment ban", he typed out another message.

**Thanks for trusting me.  And for your candidness.  I care a lot about Mycroft too.  I'm going to do anything I can.  But you'll let me know if I get off the right track, yeah?  I'm not the best at the emotional support part.  Just ask my ex.  She could write a novel about my deficiencies.  Anyway, I'll do my best to make sure Sherlock doesn't find out about Mycroft's problems.  But you do know he can read me like a children's book, right?  Still, I'll do what I can to keep it under wraps.  As for that... god Anthea.  I just never thought that.. I mean.. I can't even type a proper sentence.  When we get him back, fix him up... is it just going to happen all over again?  You said Neil's never really left him alone; maybe that's why he hasn't fully healed from it all yet.  Because he knows it's just going to happen again.  Isn't there anything we can do to offer some finality to all this?  Surely the government has some solution worked out for taking care of this Neil guy, right?  Mycroft is too important for them to keep letting this happen to him.  Once you're sending a team in for Mycroft, can't they just catch him and lock him up forever, or worse?  I think it'll do him a lot of good to know that it's over, once and for all.**

\-------------------

This was a mistake. Mycroft felt it as soon as Neil came in, his voice soothing and his touch even more so. It was a ploy, a fake, of course it was, Neil was playing him like he usually did, but Mycroft couldn't help but lean into the fingers gently brushing against the back of his neck, the contact soothing and serving to settle his fraying nerves.

God, seeing Neil again was always like falling back into an old addiction. Sherlock had his drugs, and Mycroft had Neil. There were the same ill effects--addiction, withdrawal, dependence, the shaking and the sweating and the falling apart--but there was also that lovely, lovely high from him. That positive attention and affection that was so addicting, so fucking wonderful and hard to break away from. It was like slipping into a warm, inviting bath. So comfortable, you wouldn't even notice your wrists being slit.

Which is why Mycroft was letting himself slip in now, just a little bit, leaning into the touch on the back of his neck as he closed his eyes and let himself breathe in the presence of the other man for a minute. So, Neil was comforting in his own right. Only because he was familiar, a constant presence, something Mycroft could rely on, even if it was an awful type of reliance. In a place like this, with nothing but that fucking fridge and his own beleaguered mind to keep him company, Neil was something familiar to hold onto even if that was like holding onto a live eel and hoping not to get shocked.

"I..." He started to speak and then stopped again, finding the tremble in his voice too much to continue at the moment. He didn't want to show Neil that much weakness yet. He swallowed, put his hand on Neil's knee, and then opened his eyes to meet Neil's emerald gaze before he tried again. "I'm afraid my arm is beginning to bother me, and I'm sure you wouldn't want me to get an infection or anything so unseemly. Would it be possible for you to procure some type of medication for me?"

He'd never been quite as charming as Neil--oh no, the American was a born politician, quite literally--but Mycroft had picked up more than a few skills during his diplomatic engagements, and besides that he knew Neil better than--well, better than most people did, most likely. Neil had tried his hardest to hide his true nature from Mycroft during their relationship, but two years were a long time to keep secrets hidden from someone. Mycroft had picked things up during that time period, learned more about Neil than he ever really wanted to know, but it was helpful now. If he offered himself over like this, if he pretended to be on the verge of a breakdown without Neil's interference, Neil would leap at the opportunity to exploit his vulnerability. Neil loved to destroy vulnerable things, and there was no other way for Mycroft to describe himself at the moment.

\-------------------

The first chime of the mobile didn't disrupt Sherlock's thought process.

**Mycroft's mobile is on its way to you now. We've already gotten everything we can from it, so it's Sherlock's now and he can do what he'd like with it, any governmental information has been removed.**

The second one did, and he opened his eyes to glare suspiciously in Greg's direction.

**As for getting rid of Neil permanently, since Mycroft's accident there has been a standing imprisonment order for him. He's considered a wanted criminal as far as our end is concerned, it's just a question of getting our hands on him. And considering Neil's fleet of lawyers, it's hard to make  any criminal charges to stick. So aside from Neil dying somehow (don't get any ideas, Detective) there isn't a foolproof way to keep him under wraps and away from Mycroft, as much as I wish there was. But if we do get Neil, I can personally promise you that I will do everything within my power to make sure he stays locked as far away underground as possible. I'm not letting him do this again, Mycroft can't handle it. He's already under so much stress from his work and Sherlock's case and...well, I don't want to get fired for spilling my employer's secrets, so I'll stop myself there. The bottom line is, he'll need you, Greg. In whatever capacity you can be there for him. Even if you think you're not good with emotions or won't know what to do, just you being there for him, and reminding him that there are so many better things for him than Neil, will help immensely. I'll do all I can, but I'm just a PA. Personal boundaries with Mycroft extend pretty far, but they still exist. So don't worry. We'll get him back, and we'll make it better.**

He didn't have time to reflect on this, however, or do more than glare in Greg's general direction, as while the DI was reading the mobile was delivered to him and he finally, finally had his hands on something useful. It took him longer than usual to hack it, but that was probably because of the extra security work done to protect 'sensitive information'. Honestly, if he actually wanted that information he could have it, it was all so very boring to him. Instead, he started sifting through Mycroft's messages, emails, etc., until he found the ones from Neil. Oh.

The pallid skin that wasn't already covered in bruises seemed to fade even more, the blood draining from his face as he read over the messages and found the pictures Neil had taken. Of course. Of course, of course, of course, Neil would have gone to that place, threatened him that way. "Mycroft, you sentimental git..." he murmured, an angry kind of affection in his voice. Greg's gaze swung over to him and he shook his head, irritated. "Neil had me, so he was going to use me to encourage Mycroft to work faster to hand himself over. He threatened to sell me."

The last few words were nearly growled out, his level of frustration audible in his voice, and he threw more than tossed the mobile to Greg so he could read the emails for himself. "I'll need that laptop before I can continue working, I might be able to track Neil's mobile from his emails to Mycroft but it's unlikely he's that stupid. Sentiment...Mycroft, you of all people should have known better..."

\-------------------

"Fuck."  Lestrade dropped the phone as if it had bitten him.  While not outright obscene, the pictures were far more suggestive than anything he had ever wanted to see regarding Sherlock.  His still-medicated mind struggled for a moment, trying to put together the words that would adequately describe his disgust, his hatred.  "Fuck," he repeated.  There didn't seem to be anything else to say.  

Part of his mind was reeling; wanting desperately to scream about the overwhelming sadism of it all.  Words from Anthea's texts mixed with the images from the phone, plus his own memories of how tormented Mycroft had looked before he left all mixed together in his mind, creating some sort of horrible repeating loop.  The other part, the policeman's part, simply and calmly informed him that perhaps he could see the benefits of setting aside sentiment after all.  Right now, the sentimental part of him just wanted to hit something, anything, maybe everything.  Instead, the calmer, more rational part of his brain took over and he used his own mobile to text Donovan.

**Sally.  Can I ask a non-Yard related favor?  Would you send someone to my room with my laptop please?  I'd ask to see you in person, but I'm not only suspended; I'm also with Sherlock.  Two very good reasons to avoid me right now.  Doubtless you've received orders to not to discuss any case matters with me and I wouldn't ask you to go against those.  But if you could get me my laptop, I'd consider it a personal favor.  Thanks.**

"There.  Laptop should be on its way."  It was strange to Lestrade how hollow his voice sounded.  Like he was talking from the bottom of some deep well.  Better to let the numbness seep in now, he supposed.  Let it tide him over.  Assist him in dealing with Sherlock.  In dealing with everything.  It took the edge off; made the thoughts and ideas running rampant through his head hurt just a bit less.  Yeah.  Best not to fight it.  Because as soon as he saw Mycroft again that wouldn't be an option.  Even the thought of the man caused a terrible, aching sensation to wrap around his heart and hissing tendrils of doubt to course through his already taxed mind.  Fortunately the sensation soon faded, but before it departed completely it whispered to him that he should at least check on Sherlock's mental well-being, even if he was ignoring his own for the time being.

"So.  Ah.  Are you ok?  I mean... Uh.  Well.  You know what I mean."  Lestrade winced at his awful mincing of the words, but he couldn't get out anything more detailed.  Just thinking about what might have happened to Sherlock left him dumbstruck.  Excellent.  Eloquently delivered Detective Inspector.  Exactly the kind of heartfelt reassurances someone who was very nearly the victim of human trafficking needs.  I'm sure he's right as rain now, thanks to your efforts.

\-------------------

The feel of his auburn haired captive ever-so-slightly leaning into him gave Neil the most delightful, hungry ache at the core of his being.  Their years apart after Mycroft's unfortunate 'accident' seemed to have done little to dull the man's reactions to his touches.  There was something heady and intoxicating about being written that deep into the fabric of someone's soul.  Despite time and distance the younger man's reactions to the stimuli Neil provided were just the same as they had ever been.  Oh, Mycroft hated himself for enjoying it, but enjoy it he did.  After years of physical and mental isolation, the man was positively starved for affection.  It was a hunger that Neil was more than happy to feed.

That was until the politician reached out and placed his hand on the criminal's knee, squeezing gently.  The gesture was out of character, and insincere.  Manipulative.  Oh, he had gotten good.  Mycroft was always such an apt student, and Neil supposed that between his own influence and years in politics that the younger man had to have picked up some tricks.  But the idea that he could simply placate Neil with a few vulnerable gestures of affection?  No, those weren't Mycroft's attentions to give.  They were Neil's attentions to take.  Only after the brilliant man had been taken apart completely, when every motion of his mind and body revolved around Neil would they have any meaning.  When the little helpless, affectionate gestures were uncalculated and natural they'd be oh so welcome.  But this subtle entreaty, this faux-submissiveness?  Not acceptable at all.  It seemed someone needed a little reminding as to who was in charge.

"Mycroft Holmes, ever the mind reader," Neil murmured softly, continuing to lightly brush his fingers along the nape of Mycroft's neck.  "Why I was just thinking the same thing.  In fact," without breaking contact from his captive, Neil reached his free hand into his jacket pocket and procured the bottle he had taken from his desk.  "I even came prepared."

"I was going to give these to you, no strings attached," he growled, rattling the bottle slightly, corners of his mouth turning down with the barest hints of a disapproving frown.  "I must admit, though.  I'm a bit displeased at the insincerity of your gesture."  Emerald eyes cast a disdainful glare at the pale, long fingered hand clasping his knee.  "You forget.  You may be better at reading people, but I'm the best at reading you.  And while I normally appreciate a good manipulation as much as the next man, I have to say I'm a bit disappointed that you'd try to pull one over on me.  Rolling over and baring your throat doesn't suit you, pet.  Not when you still intend to bite."

"No, these are no longer a gift, Mycroft.  They have to be earned," he continued, once again shaking the pill bottle for emphasis.  He smiled a humorless grin when his captive's only reaction was to raise a questioning auburn eyebrow.  "Oh, don't be dull, darling," Neil purred.  "Of course I'm not going to tell you what you have to do.  Instead, I think I'll let you choose."  Strong fingers tightened in the silken hair at the back of the politician's neck, the grip firm bordering on painful.

"So tell me," he growled, leaning forward to speak directly into Mycroft's ear.  "What do you think would please me enough to hand them over?"

\-------------------

Sherlock tsked dismissively to Greg's question, a 'of-course-I'm-fine-you-idiot-I'm-above-these-things' noise meant to convey his level of disgust and disinterest in Neil's threats. They were juvenile, really--he would have appreciated at least a little more creativity--immediately going to drugs and sex, the two most prevalent sins and the most predictable ones. He wouldn't have actually gone through with it, though, Mycroft must have known that. Neil was just doing it to wind him up, threaten the thing most precious to him, but he wouldn't actually go through with it.

At least, that was what Sherlock kept telling himself to calm the shaking in his hands. So close. He'd been so close to so many awful things...and once again, Mycroft had been there to bail him out. No matter what bad blood existed between them, it seemed that his brother was always there to save him in situations like this. If Mycroft hadn't handed himself over so readily...no, that didn't bear thinking about. Once again, Mycroft had been there for him. Well, it was time to pay his elder brother back.

"I'm fine," he practically growled out in answer to Greg, and his brow furrowed as he looked back at the other man. He seemed different somehow...cut off. Ah. He was actually attempting to emotionally distance himself from the situation. Good, that would make this much easier for both of them and allow them to work faster. Sherlock settled back in his bed again, steepling his fingers together and tapping them lightly against his lips as he started to think. "Toss me back over the mobile," he demanded, and started going through the emails again when Greg complied. After a minute he groaned slightly; it was what he'd thought.

"Heroin. No wonder I can think quickly, he dosed me with heroin and threatened to up the dosage every six hours. Mycroft would have folded like a card table without the added incentive of human trafficking." His eyes slipped to Greg's again, narrowing for his next words. "I don't know what Anthea told you about Neil and the government's sad efforts to keep him contained, but if we find him before the government does--which I will--I will make it my mission to make sure he does not make it out of there alive. This has gone on for long enough." And with that out of the way, he returned to his brooding, tapping his fingers against his bottom lip as he thought and waited for the laptop to be delivered.

\-------------------

Oh no. He'd overplayed it. Mycroft had allowed himself to hope slightly when Neil produced the bottle of pills from his jacket pocket, though the thought that Neil had anticipated him in the first place was disconcerting, to say the least. But then Neil's voice changed and Mycroft realized he'd overplayed his hand, gone too far with what was already meant to be a very subtle manipulation. Sadly, it seemed that even now he couldn't fool Neil with these things. Damn it.

He managed to repress a wince when Neil grabbed tightly onto his hair, the touch nearly painful now and certainly forceful. He did not, however, manage to hold back his slight shiver at Neil's words.

" _What do you think would please me enough to hand them over?_ "

That was a loaded question if he'd ever heard one. The immediate responses that rose to mind were all entirely sarcastic albeit true--my complete and utter destruction, my psychological breakdown, my undying devotion pledged to you to feed your massive fucking ego, you psychopath--but he swallowed the words down, the taste bitter in his mouth. This entire situation tasted sour to him, but his shoulder was killing him and if he didn't get some medication soon, it would make the time spent with Neil that much harder.

"Let's not play games, Neil. You want me to be the same as I was with you in Uni, when I was at your mercy," he said, his voice weary as he smiled a little, bitterly. "Anything towards that end would please you greatly, I'm assured. So, anything you want..." his fingertips brushed against the inside of Neil's leg where they sat against his knee "...within **reason** , you can have. My continued comfort based on medication is worth my providing some comfort for you in return."

The tight grip Neil had on his hair prevented him from turning his head enough to fully see the other man--his intention, certainly--so he was using his voice rather than his blue eyes, tone dropping lower, more suggestive. This, at least, was something Neil wasn't prepared for; Neil had known Mycroft when Mycroft was still awkward, uncertain, jumping at the slightest hint of flirtation. Mycroft had grown out of that stage rather quickly after his relationship with Neil, finding subtle flirtations useful in both his professional and personal life, and had become rather skilled at the whole thing. Mycroft Holmes had quite grown up in his time away from Neil, and he was prepared to use all of charms in order to survive being with the man again.

\-------------------

"Sherlock!  For fuck's sake, even suspended I'm still a police officer.  You can't just say things like that to me.  Tell me you were exaggerating." Sherlock answered Greg with one of the most hateful glares he had ever been on the receiving end of, fingers still steepled in front of his lips as if Greg had interrupted some sort of prayer.  And with Janice in the mix, that was certainly saying something.  Unobtrusively (he hoped) he gestured to Sherlock's mobile and put a finger to his lips.  Hopefully the bloody genius would get to put it on silent.  Unearthly green eyes continued to smolder, but the young detective complied.  Amazing, Greg thought.  He managed to snark at me without once uttering a word.

"Damnit Sherlock.  Tell me!  Or I'll have Anthea cut us both off immediately."  The younger Holmes managed to continue with his hateful glare; Lestrade could feel it burning holes in the side of his skull even as he typed out his message while speaking.

**Seriously.  That heroin must be clouding at least some of your senses.  I've only been hanging around the edges of this clandestine lifestyle you and your brother lead, but even I could tell you that Mycroft's phone or this room are bugged.  Or both.**

The look that crossed Sherlock's high-cheekboned face was nothing short of violently impatient as Greg typed out the next set of messages.  He wasn't bad with his phone by any stretch of the imagination, but the fleet-fingered younger man was irascible at the very best of times.  Greg couldn't help but roll his own brown eyes and flip Sherlock the V.

**Not that I don't appreciate or, god help me, support your train of thought.  But fuck, Sherlock.  I don't want to have to arrest you, and seeing you go to trial would kill Mycroft.  And that's not an exaggeration.  Something to think about.  Also you're battered as all hell so I don't think you're taking anyone in a physical fight, and where the hell are you going to get a gun?  You know what?  No.  Don't tell me.  I really can't know that.**

Of course, when the silent tension in the room had reached its palatable apex was when the junior officer appeared with his laptop bag.  Greg tried to smile in greeting, but he was sure that between managing Sherlock, the pain, and the stress of the entire situation he probably just grimaced.  

"Ah!  Here we go, thanks mate.  If you could actually just hand that to Sherlock there, it'd be appreciated.  I know he looks like he's got a hornet's nest up his arse, but if you're quick he won't bite you."  Gingerly, the young man stepped over to the edge of the detective's bed and deposited the case before backpedaling away as if Greg hadn't been joking.  Well, maybe he hadn't been.  "There's a good lad.  Tell Sally I send my thanks, and I owe her one, would ya?"  A quick nod and the man was gone.  Greg had to wonder exactly what the Detective Sergeant had told him to get the poor kid so worked up.  No matter what, it was not his problem.

That honor went to Sherlock.  And as for the particularly prickly if brilliant thorn in his side, he just had one more message.  While the idea of Neil being permanently out of the picture was immensely appealing to the DI, he just couldn't find it in him to condone that course of action.  Or at least condone Sherlock being the one to pursue it.  The damage to Mycroft if he got caught might be more than the man could take, especially considering what Anthea had told him about his likely mental state upon returning.

No, if Neil did indeed need to die, it certainly wasn't going to be Sherlock.  Not if Greg Lestrade had anything to do about it.  He tried to convince himself that he had faith in Anthea's ability to keep the man contained, despite the veritable sea of lawyers the criminal had at his disposal.  But something cold and hard settled in Greg's stomach as he thought about Danny, and exactly how badly legal channels had failed him when he tried to seek their assistance.  Lestrade wasn't sure if the heavy feeling was resignation or resolution, but one way or another (hopefully without fatalities) Neil Gibson was going to have to be taken care of.

When brown eyes refocused on the younger man in the bed next to him, it was obvious Sherlock had opted to ignore him in favor of setting up the laptop, phone discarded at his side.  Evidently the raven haired man decided that Lestrade's silence was as good as surrender.  Well, if he was just going to ignore written (or typed, rather) sense then the younger detective was going to have to suffer through listening to a lecture of sorts.  Gathering breath and resolve, Greg hardened his tone just enough to let Sherlock know that he meant business.

"Sherlock, please."  Beryl-colored eyes snapped up.  The look was as good as a slap.  As the younger man opened his mouth to snap off some retort, Greg cut him off.  "If Mycroft ended up going through all this to see you ending up locked away... It'd be just as bad as having Neil lurking around as a threat.  Maybe worse."  It was a low blow, but it didn't make it any less true.  Mycroft's well being was Sherlock's priority, but by the slightly puzzled look on his face it obviously hadn't occurred to the other man that his older brother would take his arrest and incarceration poorly.  Emotion.  Sentiment.  The poor kid really was blind to it.  The thought threatened to heap more melancholy on the already taxed DI, but he shoved the thought to the back of his mind.  There'd be more time to worry about Sherlock later.

"You're smart.  Can't you think of a less obvious way to eliminate him as a threat?  You were awfully close to linking the organizations that he runs, and his involvement here is only further proof.  Once we get Mycroft back maybe you could actually run down the evidence, plus anything that would be collected at the scene to put together something strong enough that he can't weasel his way out of it."

\-------------------

Well now, this is new.  It was actually a struggle to contain his surprise as Mycroft's fingers lightly brushed against the sensitive skin of his leg.  In fact it triggered an angry response and Neil had to clench a fish to keep from hitting Mycroft or pushing him away.  No, that was not on the agenda.  It was easy to break someone with brutality.  Too simple.  And too easily mended.   _Get yourself together Neil_ , he thought venomously at himself. _Don't let the posh little git take you by surprise and manipulate you just because he's pretending to be gagging for it.  He'll hate you for taking it, but he'll hate **himself** for giving over._  The blonde took a deep breath that helped re-center himself; carefully considering the new development with lightning quickness before figuring out how to turn it into a knife that would slip between the gaps in Mycroft's armor.

"Picked up a few new tricks in our time apart, have you pet?  Tell me.  Is that how you've become quite so successful?  Flirting and fucking your way to the top never seemed your style, Mikey."  Green eyes flashed as Neil paused to consider his next words carefully.  Before the long fingered hand could withdraw, Neil placed his own atop it, pinning it in place.  Pale digits fluttered slightly under the touch, and the criminal was reminded somewhat of a caged bird.   _How fitting_.  He tightened his other hand in Mycroft's hair, just barely crossing the threshold from firmness to pain.

"Well.  I suppose you have to do something to convince people you aren't made of stone.  All the better to entice a mark with your tractability I suppose.  My, they must always be so surprised.  Mycroft Holmes; so very willing to give you what you want in the bedroom, intractable at the negotiations table."  The older man kept his voice soft and smooth as he leaned forward, very nearly whispering in Mycroft's ear.

"Have at then.  By all means, take the reigns, love."  He released his fistful of auburn hair, trailing his fingers along the smooth, warm skin along the edge of Mycroft’s jaw.  "Show me your best tricks.  Convince me and these," he purred, once more procuring the pill bottle from his jacket pocket, leaning across the other man to place it on the nightstand.  "Are all yours."

\-------------------

Mycroft felt the first few flutters of panic in his stomach when Neil's hand covered his own, effectively trapping his one good hand against the older man's knee. The sensation of panic only increased when Neil's grip in his hair tightened and this time he couldn't keep the wince off his face from the pain. It appeared that he'd offended Neil's delicate sensibilities by trying to charm him instead of playing hurt captive like a good little doggy.

And now, a challenge, and one that made Mycroft's skin crawl. Neil wanted him to convince him, surely seeing that Mycroft willingly giving himself over was infinitely worse than being forced into anything by Neil. So Mycroft could either play along, earn his medication, or go without, and live with the pain that was starting to radiate down his arm. Stuck between a rock and a hard place didn't even begin to describe Mycroft's day.

But there had been something else there, something before Neil had gotten angry again. He'd seemed...surprised by Mycroft's slight advance, almost eager, as his leg had slipped closer to the touch on his knee slightly, unconsciously. The thought of Mycroft wanting him, though he knew otherwise, was apparently enticing to him. Neil's ego had always been too big for his own good. Excellent. Mycroft could definitely work with this, and work with it well. Charming Neil would be exceedingly difficult, but it was worth it to try, see if either he could charm him enough to get the medication without too much effort, or frustrate Neil enough that Neil would act without his consent, because that was better--anything was better, really--than willingly giving in and trying to please this monster.

"Oh, Neil," he said, voice a touch breathy, amused, as he leaned forward to be close enough to Neil's ear that his lips practically brushed it when he spoke, "the difference is, I don't want any of the politicians I charm. What? You thought all those feelings from Uni would just go away when I left?" He smiled, laying a soft, teasing kiss on the corner of Neil's jaw underneath his ear at the same time as his fingertips began to massage the inside of his knee. "It may have been easier to turn my thoughts away from you after the unfortunate accident I went through, but they never really went away."

His lips travelled down the older man's jaw at the same time as his hand slid its way up, just a little, just until he could hear a hitch in Neil's breath. Then he let it rest there, drawing slow, enticing circles on his thigh. Now he just needed to solidify his appeal to Neil's ego, and that was done as he slid closer to him on the bed, pressing his leg fully against the other man's as he said in a low, sultry voice, "No, Neil, how could I forget you that easily, considering what you meant to me back then? Considering what you showed me--" a squeeze to his thigh here "--and the fact that no one has really compared since?"

God, he felt sick with himself, though he pretended it was just the pain making him this way. He was actually feeding into Neil here, practically begging him, and for what? Some pain medication? But it was the only way he'd be able to actually think or get any rest. He needed it, whether he wanted to admit that or not, and so he needed Neil. And appealing to Neil's ego was the best way to convince him.

\-------------------

Honestly, the thought of what his arrest and incarceration would do to Mycroft hadn't even crossed his mind, as Sherlock hadn't even considered getting caught for it. Sure, motive would immediately point to him, but motive was only motive. Inconsequential, really, as long as the facts of the case didn't point to him and if he killed Neil Gibson they surely wouldn't. Greg made a good point, however, and one he couldn't ignore.

Yes, he had been very close to linking the two organizations together and then to Neil, but the attacks had disrupted that somewhat. Gathering enough information to put him away indefinitely would be difficult--not impossible, definitely not for him, but difficult--especially since there likely wouldn't be any other evidence available at the scene when they finally found Mycroft.

"Neil is too clever to have any damning evidence anywhere near where he's holding Mycroft," he said after a moment of consideration, eyes flicking back down to the screen that Greg had demanded his attention from. "That's why he'll have him somewhere else, something four or five steps away from himself. A subsidiary of a subsidiary of a friend's subsidiary of someone else's something boring." He waved a dismissive hand in the air as if the whole thing was so beneath him. "He'll be six, seven steps ahead of us by now, he's not stupid enough to be directly linked to anything that goes on, at least with his criminal enterprises. Everything he does with Mycroft will have his personal touch."

He stopped, eyes flicking back and forth over the wall as an idea occurred to him, brilliant, quick, perfect. "Unless, of course, we tie him directly back to Mycroft..." His gaze snapped back up to Greg, who judging by the blank expression in his chocolate brown eyes, was clearly not following. "Mycroft is the only person who has been in direct contact with Neil this entire time. He can testify to kidnapping charges, being held against his will, extortion, blackmail, an entire litany of things that Neil did specifically to the both of us within the past 24 hours. Neil can be held on those charges alone for long enough for me to form a case against him."

A few breaths, a dozen more thoughts, everything rapid fire and then suddenly still. The excitement that had been holding up his frame fell away and his shoulders dropped as he exhaled. "If Mycroft agrees to testify. If he is capable of testifying in the first place, which all hinges on whether or not we can get him away from Neil with his consent. Which at the moment looks promising but knowing my brother, gets bleaker and bleaker with every second he's away."

\-------------------

Neil couldn't help the hitch in his breath as Mycroft's firm fingers stroked the inside of his thigh.  In fact, the feeling was intoxicating enough that he loosened his grip on Mycroft's hair, allowing the other man to lean into him and pepper kisses along his jaw.  The blonde couldn't help but notice, even distracted by the feather-light brushes of the politician's lips, that said hand was high enough up to be enticing, but not high enough to be outright obscene.  So, little Mycroft Holmes.  All grown up and practically willing to take the reigns, but not quite.

Stubborn bastard.  Knowing the auburn haired man, he'd do anything in his power to tempt Neil into taking what he wanted rather than give himself over willingly.  No, Mycroft would do anything to avoid that, because doing so would be to admit that he needed what Neil was offering.  Not just the medication, but the physical contact.  The dark, burning, fully denied need that Mycroft had for Neil's particular brand of affections.  For all his changes, the politician never really did escape his ache for the way the older blonde could shut that brilliant brain of his right down, it seemed.

"Nicely done, pet.  You really are quite good at this, aren't you?"  His voice was low and sultry, tone matched to his captive's.  Even if it hadn't been a calculated move on his part, it would have been difficult to keep to a regular register with the younger man's lips moving against the sensitive line of his jaw like that.  "Why, if I didn't know you any better I'd actually say you wanted this.  But by all means, don't let my awareness of your ploy stop you.  Provided I still have a good time, I'll be inclined to give you what you're after."  The blonde growled, his voice full of both promise and threat, enjoying the slightest of shivers that worked its way down Mycroft's spine.

"It may be worth considering here, Mycroft, that what you're looking for isn't solely the chemical numbness that the hydrocodone will provide.  Perhaps you're looking for a little mental shut-off as well?  You forget, I've always been good at telling your lies from your truths.  And while most of what you just fed me was an absolute load of bull," he murmured, snagging Mycroft's hand by the wrist, removing it from his leg and letting it drop back onto the politician's lap.  Neil rose from the bed, moving so that he was standing above Mycroft.  Green eyes locked onto down at the lovely, if slightly startled, stormcloud blue eyes that gazed back up at him.

"The part about everything I showed you being beyond comparison, though.  That had a ring of truth to it."  Smiling darkly, he stepped forward, placing each knee on either side of the politician as he moved fluidly to straddle the younger man's lap, settling in so they were face to face.  Placing a hand on each of Mycroft's shoulders, he pulled other other man's torso towards him, leaning in so that their faces were mere millimeters away from each other.

"Oh, I remember those days all too well for you to pretend there's not some lingering appeal.  After all, it was me you ran to every time life at Uni became too much, throwing yourself at me, practically begging me to fuck you until all that awful noise in your head went away."

"And you know what?  I did."  He pressed his lips to the other man's, lightly.  Just a taste.  Neil felt Mycroft's shoulders slump slightly at the contact when he pulled back, though whether it was from some kind of disappointment or just resignation he couldn't tell.  "And I still can."

"All you have to do, Mycroft my dear, is ask for it.  Or rather, convince me to give it to you.  So do keep trying to convince me of whatever other drivel you want; feelings from Uni or whatnot.  I don't really care, if it makes it easier for you to lie to yourself about needing this," he pressed his lips to Mycroft's again, this time teasing the other man's mouth open with dexterous flicks of his tongue before pulling back once more with a wicked smile.

"So, pet.  What sort of new tricks do you have at your disposal?  What can you do to drive me absolutely out of my mind for you?  I'll settle for nothing less than your very best, Mikey."

\-------------------

Sherlock's rapid fire deductions were always a welcome sight to the DI, but this was the very first time Greg could remember actually being relieved by them.  The idea that, as long as Neil was captured as part of Mycroft's rescue mission that Sherlock could have him held.  That Mycroft's testimony could keep him that way.

"You make it your job to find him, and soon.  I'll take care of making sure he's ready to testify."  The idea made Lestrade panic slightly, but he fought the feeling down.  Certainly there had been something between them, some sort of connection they had forged before their evening went entirely to shit.  But was that enough to help Mycroft overcome...well, everything he had been through?   _ **Is** currently going through_ , the insidious, cruel part of his mind whispered.

Fuck.  Even if it wasn't enough, Greg wanted to try.  God, how he wanted to be the one that would help Mycroft put himself back together after this.  To convince him that he wasn't some sort of victim, but actually **was** amazing, sophisticated, brilliant, stern, calm, cool, collected, witty.... the list could go on and on.  But that was Mycroft Holmes.  Not some toy to be played with and broken.  But an amazing man who, despite seemingly insurmountable difficulties assaulting him from every side, managed to be one of the most powerful and feared men in all of England.  Lestrade desperately wanted to get that man back.  Or at least help whoever they got back realize that he **was** that man.

But Sherlock was right.  If everything that he put together from Sherlock and Anthea even began to scratch the surface of the horrible reality, things really did continue to look bleaker for Mycroft's mental well being the longer he was with Neil.

"So.  Finding him is our number one priority.  You said he'd be several degrees removed from his operations, but not so far away that he wouldn't be able to run them.  From what I remember, most of the meetings you had with folks were in Brixton.  It's certainly where our investigations were focused.  Any chance that he'd hole up there, in some building not associated with his work?"


	14. Chapter 14

This was why it had taken him two years to break away from Neil. Because no one knew him like Neil did. Absolutely no one. Neil could read him like a book, from the neatly printed type that came from Mycroft himself to the scrawled handwriting in the margins that was Neil's fault. He knew what Mycroft wanted and needed, even now, even if Mycroft hated himself for thinking that there was some truth in Neil's statements. It was true; in Uni, he had gotten so overwhelmed with everything going on in his hyperactive and hyperaware brain that he had run to Neil for help, and Neil had always given it to him. Of course, Neil had always given him whatever he needed to make him stay.

And now, though Mycroft Holmes was a grown man who wasn't dependent on anyone else for anything and who could handle the stress and pressures of his job and life, just the thought of falling back into the wonderful sense of mindless bliss that Neil was proposing sounded lovely. Hard to deny. So very, very tempting. Maybe if he just cleared his head for a little while he could think, think of a way out of this, a way to beat Neil at his own game, a way to win against him, to get everything back the way it should be, if he just gave in for a little while--

But that was a poisonous train of thought, and it had prevented him from leaving Neil on many an occasion. Neil's affection might have been more dangerous than soothing on most occasions, but it had still been addictive to Mycroft. No matter the cost, he had still craved it whenever things got bad. Stress from a class--go find Neil. Problems at home--go find Neil. All of the usual noise from the world becoming so loud that he couldn't ignore it like usual--go find Neil. Neil will fix it. He knows how to make it better. And even now, years away from that place in his life and that relationship, Mycroft knew it would have the same effect. Giving in to Neil would provide that same sweet sense of relief that had accompanied seeing him in Uni. It didn't matter if Neil was telling him how much everyone hated him while he fucked Mycroft, it was still relief. Mycroft's own version of Sherlock's drugs.

He couldn't help the slump in his shoulders when Neil kissed him, brief, chaste, a warning as well as an enticement. Some tension immediately dropped away of its own accord, a sense of resignation coming in its place. He wished he could be stronger than he actually was. Then this wouldn't be a question. Then he'd be able to say with certainty that he had no feelings left for Neil, that this was all just a show and he could disconnect himself from it entirely, but that wasn't true. If he got involved in this, it would only be giving Neil what he wanted by dragging him back into the poisonous sweetness that Neil represented. And he wasn't sure how easily he could get out this time.

But, he thought as Neil's tongue teased his mouth open before darting away again, what other choice did he have? His injured shoulder was already burning with pain from Neil using it to pull him closer, and it would only get worse as time went on. A painful shoulder and arm would make his already disjointed thinking even more scattered and then he'd be left trying to get help from Neil again--which would only be much worse the second time around--or trying to induce a sugar coma in himself, which would do wonders for the careful diet Anthea had been keeping him on.

So really, he had no choice in the matter. Lovely. He smiled at Neil, a small, bitter smile, all artifice dropped. "I don't think you deserve my very best, dear, but I know you'll settle for nothing less. You did always insist on draining me dry in Uni, I know you took a personal enjoyment from every moment of suffering you caused. But I'd be lying if you said you got the best from me." The old tact hadn't worked, so it was time for a new one. A different one, probably more dangerous since he was setting out to hurt, but making Neil angry was the only defense mechanism he had left for himself.

"Oh, I'm sure you thought you were so clever, binding the inexperienced one to you, but you rather missed out that way, I'm afraid." He leaned in closer to Neil, using his good hand to unbutton the older man's suit jacket and then the top few buttons of his shirt, leaning in close to lick the hollow of his throat, a gentle, teasing contact that he pulled back from immediately, his lips going instead to the space between Neil's jaw and neck. He forced the older man to tilt his head up with forceful kisses along the line of his jaw before he nipped gently at Neil's tanned skin and then pulled away again with an enticing smile that was ironic if nothing else.

"There have been many others beside you who I would say got much better from me than you did, and for less. It must have so frustrated you when I left and all of your hard work went to waste. Years of shaping me into what you wanted, affecting my behavior so I was the perfect little play thing for you, only to have me leave and manage to stay away despite your best attempts otherwise. Tell me, what was it that I said to you that day a few years ago that made you want to cause an accident for me? Was it the complete rejection of you, or was it my denial of having had any feelings for you in the first place?"

\----------------

"You're being moderately intelligent today, Lestrade, did you obtain a head injury as part of your attack?" Sherlock asked, a smirk in his eyes as he turned his attention back to the laptop and mobile. Brixton was actually a helpful suggestion, as what Greg was saying was true. Most of the meetings had been conducted there and a lot of the evidence pointed that way, but would Neil honestly be that stupid? He must have predicted Sherlock would go looking for his brother, but then again, maybe he'd assume that he wouldn't care that Mycroft was gone. Outside observers always misunderstood their relationship, always assumed it was one-sided and that Mycroft was the only one that actually cared. Wrong. So very wrong.

"Yes, he might be in Brixton. I assumed he was more intelligent than that, but maybe his judgment is impaired due to his excitement from finally obtaining my brother. Disappointing." A ripple of displeasure crossed his face for a moment, contemplating the fact that Neil might have been less intelligent than he'd previously thought. Maybe he was even less worth Mycroft's attention than Sherlock had thought.

He played with Mycroft's mobile again, dividing his attention between the phone and Greg's laptop as he considered and dismissed for a few minutes, falling into a hostile silence as he ignored Greg. "There are several places he could be in Brixton, I'm texting them to Anthea now so she can investigate further. It'll take awhile for her to go through those, though, they can't just go bursting in without provocation. I wish I had more information..." He let out a groan of frustration, dropping his head back against his hospital pillow. That stretched his bruises in an unfortunate way and he lifted it back up again, ebony curls in further disarray.

"There must be a more logical way to think of this...if I were a psychopath intent on locking someone away where would I choose to keep him? Somewhere that could be repurposed, somewhere with running water and flexibility to be changed...an open space. Available." He grabbed his phone and texted Anthea, eliminating a few more options before putting it down again and returning to thinking. "There are only so many places he can hide before we find him."

\----------------------

After Sherlock complimented him (because yes, having an increase in your general intelligence attributed to head trauma **was** a compliment, coming from him), Lestrade watched the young man settle into an unhappy, thrashing silence. Greg had to stop himself from fidgeting as well. The words 'Neil', 'excitement', and 'obtain' sent a new torrent of anger and panic washing through his system. Not to mention the feeling of utter helplessness that gnawed at his every nerve. At least Sherlock could be useful from a hospital bed; with an internet connection and a laptop the man was had probably made more headway in tracking down his brother's location than Anthea's entire team. There had to be something that he could do, other than just sit and stare at Sherlock as the detective lapsed in and out of his deductive silences. Hell, when he **was** talking he wasn't speaking to Lestrade specifically so much as he was just vocalizing his ideas.

Right, well. At least he could try and keep Anthea up to date on the tentative plan. His brain unhelpfully reminded him of exactly how tenuous their plans were: the idea of Mycroft being willing and able to testify depended on so many things. The politician's mental well being, his physical well being, hell... it was all contingent on them being able to **find** Mycroft in the first place. A horrible, cavernous feeling replaced his stomach as Greg realized that as likely as it was they would get Mycroft back, there was always the possibility that they couldn't find him. That Neil would kill him, or ship him from location to location, covering his tracks so well that they'd never be able to track him down again. The idea of Mycroft living the rest of his life in a series of cells was enough to add nausea to the rising tide of tension inside him. Raking a hand through his silvery hair, Lestrade did his best to push the thoughts to the back of his mind. No sense in tormenting himself over something that hadn't happened. **Wasn't** going to happen. Better to keep Anthea appraised of the plan so that when they did get Mycroft

**Sherlock thinks that if we can get Mycroft to testify that he can have Neil held on those charges long enough for him to put together a case linking him to both criminal organizations. Mycroft's ban on Sherlock's involvement will at least be lifted once he's retrieved, right? My reinstatement with the Yard will take a bit longer, but it's really only Mycroft's orders that's keeping Sherlock off your team, correct? The idea is for him to focus on gathering evidence. I'm going to try and make sure Mycroft's in the right place to actually testify against the bastard. I imagine I'll be needing your help with that. He depends on you for a whole lot, and I'm pretty new at this. And I thought, well. Once we do have him back, maybe you could put the two of us in a room together? I'm sure he'll need a checkup at the very least, and his arm has got to be killing him. I'm a few days away from discharge myself. It'd be the best way I could keep an eye on him.**

After a few silent minutes, devoid of input from either Sherlock or Anthea, Greg fidgeted with his mobile again. It was selfish, to need reassurance when he was supposed to be focusing on Mycroft and not his own troubles, but if he didn't get at least some indication that they were making progress in tracking Mycroft down he'd start crawling out of his skin. A quick text to Anthea wouldn't be too bothersome, would it?

**Please tell me we're close to finding him.**

Still nothing. That was either very good, or very bad. Time to try and pry information from Sherlock, then.

"Hey. Can I do anything?" Mint-colored eyes snapped open and leveled him with a glare, and Greg shrugged an apology. The motion made him wince, but he managed to shake the lingering twinge of pain off and refocus his attentions. "I'm having a hard time just sitting here," he offered, tone full of apology. " I just... I can't... Look. There's got to be something I can do, isn't there?"

\----------------------

Green eyes widened a bit as Mycroft closed the gap between them, fingers deftly working open his jacket and shirt collar before sliding his tongue enticingly along the hollow of his throat. His captive made quite the show of displaying his lauded experience; kissing and lightly biting at all the right places along the column of Neil's throat. The blonde let Mycroft take the lead, guiding his head back and enjoying the enthusiasm the younger man displayed as he kissed his way down the hard line of Neil's jaw. That was until the other man pulled back, smiling wryly as antagonistic words spilled from his previously so-pleasurable lips. Goading Neil about his escape from the older man's influence, trying desperately to find some kind of crack in his captor's composure.

Neil laughed, tone low and rich, as Mycroft tried to rile him up. Or rather, he laughed to conceal the fact that it was working, to some degree. It **was** beyond frustrating, their last meeting, when Mycroft had made the ultimatum. The whole ' _I never did love you now leave me alone, stay out of my life or you'll have the full wrath of the crown to deal with_ ' attitude had come as quite the shock. The more entrenched he became in his work the stronger the politician became; more sure of himself, less likely to yield to old habits when Neil presented the opportunity . Mycroft having a purpose outside of Neil was the worst thing to happen to their 'arrangement'. Gibson knew he was foolish to have let Mycroft run off during his second year of uni, but he had been so confident that the younger man would have come crawling back as he had so many other times before. But that last time was different. He couldn't have anticipated the young genius being recruited by the government, let alone being provided with the means necessary to make a clean break. When Mycroft Holmes had disappeared he did so completely. It was almost as if he had never existed in the first place. It took Neil a couple of years just to track him down again, and even that had been more due to dumb luck than to anything else. The newly-minted politician had showed up at a formal diplomatic conference in Belgium, looking healthier than he had in the years that Neil knew him in Uni. He'd made it a goal to never let the other man stray too far from his sight again.

And now here they were once again. It was dumb luck again that brought them to this point, not unlike the chance meeting that reunited them several years ago. After the 'accident' Mycroft and his team had been extraordinary vigilant; Neil was unable to get anywhere close to the politician. Even inserting a person onto Mycroft's team had proven to be too difficult to accomplish. For two years the man seemingly never went anywhere that wasn't a government function, the Diogenes Club, or his very well guarded flat. And certainly Neil had thought of Mycroft when his lanky, nosy younger brother began poking around at various aspects of his operations, but it seemed to be nothing more than happenstance; the lack of subtlety and national importance spoke volumes about Mycroft's absence of involvement. Still, it renewed Neil's interest. The original plan had simply been to incapacitate or eliminate Sherlock and that bothersome DI, but when Neil's team sent him pictures of Mycroft and his pet actually going out to a pub, well. It had proved too much temptation to resist.

Temptation. Yes. That was exactly what Mycroft was going for. A new approach with the same goal; to make Neil lose his temper and simply take what he wanted instead of forcing Mycroft to offer himself up. The idea that his captive was still trying to manipulate him caused a burning anger to coil in his chest. Well. If the posh bitch didn't want to play the game properly, there was no incentive for Neil to play at all. Placing one hand above Mycroft's heart, Neil shoved slightly, pushing his captive backwards onto the bed as he smoothly removed himself from the politician's lap to stand above him.

"If you don't want your fucking medication, Mycroft, then do us both a favor and just say so." His voice came out in a low, tight growl as he turned blazing eyes on the man below him. "I'm more than happy to take these," he reached out and snatched the bottle of pills off the nightstand, holding them between thumb and forefinger as he thrust the container towards Mycroft's face. "And leave. So you have two options. You can either get back to playing the good little slut and show me exactly how developed those negotiation tactics of yours really are. That is if you can let yourself stop pretending that you **don't** want to be fucked senseless even while you're very nearly begging me to do so. Or I can go, take the pills with me, and watch as the pain you experience becomes exponentially compounded when you have nothing left to distract you." He gave a triumphant smirk, white teeth bared in a half snarl as he glared down at his captive.

"Boredom and agony, or compromise and relief? Which do you want, Mycroft? Choose, and stick with it. Because next time you decide to try and be clever you won't be seeing me again for several hours. And if that sounds like a relief, think again. I have all the time in the world, pet. How long do you think you're going to last, locked up in here with nothing but your pain to focus on?"

\----------------------

Sherlock didn't answer Greg for a minute, because he didn't have an answer. There was little he himself could do, and at the moment he was their best chance of finding Mycroft. What did Greg expect to do? "Nothing," he murmured after a moment, closing his eyes and leaning back against his pillow with a soft sigh. "There's nothing either of us can do but wait and see what Anthea finds out and it's infuriating. At this point they need more bodies out searching for him than anything else and we're both stuck here in the hospital, absolutely **useless** unless I can narrow the possibilities down further and I'm not sure how much narrower I can make them."

There was a minute of silence and he pounced on his mobile as it went off at the same time as Greg's, twin texts having been sent to them both.

**No news yet. Will keep you informed.**

A minute later Greg's mobile went off again but Sherlock didn't seem to care, closing his eyes again and lying back on his bed.

**I'll make sure to put Mycroft in the same room as you once he gets back, being around both you and Sherlock will help him, I think. Sherlock will be allowed to work with us once Mycroft is back as long as Mycroft clears it, but getting him to testify against Neil will be harder...again, it all depends on his state of mind and what he thinks about Neil when he gets back. For all we know, he could start another relationship with him. Not that I think he would, but that is a worst case scenario to consider. If he did, however, I don't think he'd be coming back period. So as long as we find him soon, he'll be alright. We have a finite number of locations to search in Brixton and several have already been tackled by our team. Finding Mycroft is only a matter of time, but the more time that passes, the worse it's likely to be for him. Your help in getting him to testify will not only be appreciated, it's probably necessary at this point. Apparently he actually listens to you, which is more than I can say. I'm just a PA, I shouldn't even be heavily involved in this, but I will be anyway and he'll expect that, though my influence can only extend so far. If anyone can get him to testify, it's you, Greg. Really, I can't even begin to tell you how helpful you've been and continue to be. If Mycroft doesn't thank you of his own accord when he gets back, I'll make absolutely certain that he does, because you really deserve it. Thank you for all of your help so far and your continued support. I'll let both you and Sherlock know when I have news.**

\----------------------

When Neil laughed, Mycroft knew it was working. Neil was so very good at pretending to laugh things off that in truth, bothered him more than words could say, but Mycroft had learned the difference years ago. This was the same bitter little laugh that Neil had tried to use to pass off his shock two years ago when Mycroft told him it was completely over, no question in his mind and no room to negotiate. Mycroft had never felt as vindicated as he had that day. He'd truly cherished Neil's every reaction to his ultimatum; the shock, the anger, the attempts to brush and laugh it off, the bargaining that was cut short when Mycroft simply stood up and left, not interested in hearing any more excuses. He'd been so strong then, up until the accident. But even then, that had seemed like the end of it. Neil couldn't touch him, couldn't even come near him after that, and Mycroft was left to hope beyond hope that maybe, just maybe he had finally escaped the older man's influence.

What had happened, exactly? How had he gotten to this point, back to his Uni days where Neil held all the power and he was left to just hope, beg, and please? His life had moved on so much since those days, he'd been doing so much better. The eating disorder was mostly under control, his job had been going well, he'd been dating, though not very successfully until his date with Greg, and Sherlock had been doing well, had been handling the case pretty well and hadn't gone back to old habits in a long while. But here he was again, at the mercy of his favorite psychopath and about to do something he would loathe himself for in exchange for some pain medication and the blissful relief of a silent mind for a while.

Blue eyes like a sea during a storm slid shut as he sighed heavily, resignation causing his frame to droop as he lay on the bed where Neil had pushed him down. Either way he chose, Neil was going to win. It was a question of degrees at this point, as well as a question of what Mycroft was getting in return. From that perspective, it was much easier to rationalize giving in to Neil, though he was already starting to feel sick at the thought. But Neil wanted a show, clearly, and Mycroft could give him a damn good one, if he could shove down his nausea long enough to pretend that he actually wanted this, though the friendly little voice at the back of his mind reminded him that he did want this, at least in part. Mindlessness would be a blessed relief at the moment, and he would even get pain medication along with it! What did it matter that it was Neil that he was giving into? So what if this was going to drag him back into a relationship that had nearly destroyed him before?

He opened his eyes again to look at Neil standing above him, the man's triumphant smirk hitting him like a knife to the chest. God, this was going to be so hard. Right, this was just another case of diplomacy. Just another politician to seduce for negotiations. That could be done. "Why, Neil, is that how you want me? Another slut like the ones you slept with in Uni before you set your sights on me? And here I always thought you liked me because I was different, I was an exception for you. But if a slut is what you want, then I can give that to you easily." His voice was a purr, low and alluring, trying to slowly entice Neil back into temptation. No tricks, no manipulations this time, just an honest attempt to seduce Neil to get what he wanted. Mycroft was back to playing Neil's game, by Neil's rules, and he absolutely hated himself for it.

"What do you want me to say, Neil? That I want you like I wanted you in Uni? Then by all means, believe that if you wish. Believe I want you. I could even say I wanted you, if that makes it better for you. Just you, Neil, only ever you." His voice was nearly derisive, just bordering the edge between sincerity and derision, and the line between the two was further blurred when he canted his hips up towards Neil slightly, the strain put onto his shoulder from the motion nearly making him wince though he managed to smooth his expression again. Hips tilted up invitingly and his eyes doing their best to lure Neil in as well, he really did feel like a slut. A whore. Tempting those he didn't want into things he didn't want for things that he **did** actually want. A far cry from the night previous, when his attempts towards Greg had been much more subtle and much more sincere. He didn't care if his attempts towards Neil were too heavy handed now, as long as they worked and got him what he wanted. Though what he wanted was getting more and more confusing by the moment.

\----------------------

_`"He could start another relationship with him."_ Anthea's words were beyond chilling. Of _course_ it was the worst case scenario. Of _course_ it was the least likely possibility. But that slick tendril of doubt threaded itself through Greg's mind. Every time he thought about the pained look on Mycroft's face right before he left it constricted a bit more, choking out just a touch more rational thought. It wasn't at all helpful, he knew. But with a complete lack of anything else to do it was hard focus on anything else. Even though they hadn't shared anything but a pint and couple of kisses, the silver haired man felt almost unnaturally protective of the politician. Perhaps it was because of the rare openness they had shared the previous night, or simply that Mycroft so obviously needed someone in addition to Anthea looking out for him. Either way, it was a hell of a situation to be in; wanting desperately to do something while being unable to do **anything**.

The fact that Sherlock seemed to share his general feeling of anxiety and uselessness did nothing to settle his nerves. Lestrade knew that he was never any good at sitting by; it was part of the reason he had chosen to be a part of the Yard. Even the paperwork, as tedious and mind numbing as it was, accomplished something. The DI fidgeted with his phone, brown eyes silently willing it to produce a message with news of Mycroft's safety. At least five minutes passed with nothing but the sound of hospital monitors and Sherlock's occasional frustrated sighs. Irritated, Lestrade toyed with his mobile, busying himself by thumbing through his last several messages from Anthea. She really did seem to think that he'd be able to help Mycroft somehow. He tried to let the thought bolster him; the lovely PA did know her boss better than anyone else, after all. Anthea really wanted to see Mycroft happy, and seemed to think that somehow Greg could play a part in that. Well even if he couldn't live up to her expectations, it wasn't going to stop him from trying. Half wanting to reassure himself, half wanting to reassure Anthea he thumbed out a message before letting his lead fall back on his pillow, determined to at least try and get some sleep. God knew that when they finally did find Mycroft he'd need his brain functioning at its highest capacity. As he closed his eyes, Greg held firm to his texted declaration, the words echoing through his head like a mantra.

**I'll do anything that I can.**

\----------------------

There was no denying the increase in his pulse when Mycroft bridged his back slightly, tilting his hips up towards Neil in half-offering half-entreaty. There was a darkness about his stormy blue eyes that made the gesture all the more appealing; some mix of self-hatred and suppressed want that looked just as beautiful on the auburn haired man as it had back when they were younger. That was the look that Neil had been waiting for. Grudging resignation, flecked with moments of confusion. All the better to blur the line between the politician's pretend show and the actual, darker desires that still lingered just beneath the surface of his carefully maintained facade.

The taller blonde leaned forward over his captive, placing a hand on either side of Mycroft's waist as he eased himself back up onto the mattress. He moved up along the man's torso until he was settled over his waist, trapping the other man's hips beneath him. Tanned fingers moved deftly over Mycroft's torso, weaving around the obtrusion of the sling, flicking open shirt buttons as they traveled downwards towards his belt. When his hands reached the juncture of shirt and trousers, Neil let his fingers dip slightly below the waistband. He untucked the expensive shirt, letting it splay open as much as it could with the impediment of the sling. Still, it exposed a nice swath of pale, freckled chest for him to run his hands over hungrily. Mycroft's skin was warm and smooth, and the way that he shivered under the bare skin to skin contact was delicious. It could have been desire or revulsion. To Neil, it didn't matter much which it was. The reaction in and of itself was the goal, not the origin.

"Please go ahead, 'lie' to me all you like, pet." Green eyes flickered with a hint of desire mixed with cruelty. This was a well worn path, but that didn't make it any less enjoyable. In fact, thanks to the absence of games between them over the past couple of years, the blonde was nearly able to admit that he was starved for it. As addictive as he could be to Mycroft, the man had somewhat of a reciprocal effect on Neil as well. He hungered for those soft, pained looks mixed with breathy, wanton gasps. The perfect combination of want and regret. Neil shifted his hips, looking to create some friction and turn Mycroft's well-acted desire into a genuine physical reaction.

"Yes. Pretend you don't want this. It'll be just like that last year at Uni then, won't it? I'll be lying to you, just like all those times I told you I thought you were beautiful or clever," he growled. It was a light swing, more meant to goad than to actually injure. An old favorite, brought up simply for nostalgia's sake. "And you'll be lying to yourself, repeating over and over in your head that you don't want anything to do with me even as your brain shuts down, your nerves light up, and your body practically shakes with want."

Neil almost discarded the pill bottle that he was holding onto in order to free his other hand, when inspiration struck. "I really do want you to enjoy yourself, pet," he offered with a cruel smirk. "So if you're willing to play nice and give us a kiss..." He twisted off the cap, smiling down at Mycroft as he took two tablets and placed them on his own tongue before leaning down and pressing his mouth to the other man's. There. Just another tiny game of compromise to further erode Mycroft's obstinance. He smiled against Mycroft's the firm line of Mycroft's lips, waiting for the younger man to quite literally take the bait.

\----------------------

It was a repeated mantra in his head to not react to Neil in any way, especially when Neil's hips shifted against his own in a way that began to stir something in his stomach, his body wanting to react favorably to the familiar contact even while his brain was screaming to avoid doing so. Half-undressed and trapped underneath Neil's body, though, it was hard to keep this up. Especially when Neil pressed his lips to Mycroft's again, goading the other man to take the medication he so desperately needed.

Another compromise. Another tiny battle Mycroft was going to lose. Neil was a war, and Mycroft was losing all the little battles in the campaign. He was certainly going to lose a crucial one if they kept going like this, and he knew with certainty that Neil wasn't going to stop until he got what he wanted. So he breathed a sigh out through his nose and leaned up into the kiss, sweeping his tongue over Neil's bottom lip until his mouth opened to him and he could sweep in and steal the pills, swallowing them before Neil had a chance to change his mind. Of course, Neil then pressed his advantage, dominating Mycroft's mouth in that suffocating affection Mycroft had known since Uni, and Mycroft found himself reacting unwillingly, kissing back and closing sapphire eyes as his body took over to repeat motions from long ago. It was more a power struggle than a kiss, one that he would lose, as he had always lost, and he found himself slipping back into the past effortlessly. This was so different than kissing Greg...

Mycroft's eyes snapped back open and somehow, amazingly, he found it in himself to break off the kiss and push Neil away with his free hand for a moment, eyes wide as he remembered exactly where he was and what he was doing and who he was with. Greg. Jesus, why had Greg decided to pop up in his thoughts again? If he thought about Greg, he was never going to get through this, it just wasn't possible. His self hatred would increase tenfold and he'd never be able to face Greg again, not without a crushing mountain of guilt to tide him over. Fuck, he'd just resigned himself to this, too. He'd been okay with it. He couldn't back out now, Neil wouldn't let him and there would be consequences if he tried to stop him now.

He smiled smoothly, patronizingly, in order to cover his brief moment of panic, to make this seem like it was more on purpose. "I'll play nicely as long as you do," he said, his voice still dropped into an alluring tone. This whole thing was making him sick, and any desire Neil had been stirring in him dropped away again like an anvil off a cliff. "Though I'm glad to see you're in a generous mood again. Tell me, how can I keep that mood up?" His voice dropped lower as his free hand moved to continue the process of unbuttoning Neil's shirt that he'd started earlier, each button slow and deliberate as he looked directly into Neil's eyes, turning the full force of a desirous gaze on him, though it was, indeed, forced.

"Because I'm sure you remember, Neil, just how very good I was at giving you what you want. You may have been able to criticize me everywhere else, but the bedroom was one place where I learned very quickly. Isn't that right?" he asked, finishing unbuttoning the shirt and leaning up to snag some of Neil's neck in his teeth in a gentle nip before sucking on the same spot, his hand splayed across Neil's bare chest. Greg was going to hate him for this, if he ever found out. But probably nowhere near as much as he hated himself.

\----------------------

It had been so close. Mycroft had been on the very edge, returning his kiss and arching his back in the way that Neil knew spoke of inevitable surrender, but something in that tumultuous brain of his had pulled the politician back from the brink. The difference was nearly indistinguishable, but the brief look of panic on the younger man's face as he pulled out of the kiss gave Neil all the evidence he needed. Yes. Some wayward thought had crossed his captive's mind, derailing him from their track. It was infuriating; the older blonde could feel anger and frustration knotting in his shoulders. Despite his reservations Mycroft quickly resumed his sultry countenance, still determined to make use of Neil's supposed good mood. There was no reason to try and stop him. Every false step still took them towards real satisfaction and that was enough, at least for now. Once things got far enough along Mycroft would give in to sensation, just as he always had. It wasn't as if he had forgotten how to make Mycroft come completely undone over the past two years. But the game was no longer just about making Mycroft give in to his baser desires. No, things had just changed subtly and Neil needed to figure out why. The criminal's verdant eyes studied his captive carefully, though the blonde did make sure to let both his interest and his anticipation show as Mycroft used the lowest register of his voice to start murmuring about playing 'nice'.

Cobalt eyes gazed back at him, every line of Mycroft's face reading desire. Everything gesture, every breath spoke of growing hunger but for his pupils, which remained constricted. A sign of fear, of stress, not of lust. The man might be a brilliant actor, but there were certain things that were amazingly difficult to fake. Neil gave his customary predatory smile as Mycroft leaned in and continued to work the buttons of his shirt with his hand, but both parties were being insincere in their roles. Mycroft in his ploy of desirous submission, and Neil in his complimentary part of satisfied captor. Whether his captive's current responses were fake or real, it didn't matter much to the blonde criminal. Neil's patience was very nearly spent, and for all his boasting the older blonde was aware that their time together did have a limit. Moving forward was the only option. Enough pressure, enough of their own familiar brand of pain and sex and surely Mycroft would give over, at least physically. But somewhere in that labyrinthine mind were thoughts that Neil hadn't cultivated and his fingers itched to yank them out, raw and bleeding. There shouldn't be anything at all left of Mycroft that he himself hadn't at least planted the seeds for. So what was it that kept the auburn haired man from giving in? What was different this time that hadn't been part of their equation in any of their previous meetings?

Oh. That damnable pet of his. Mycroft's little guard dog, his stray policeman. That mutt had been hanging around for two years; why did he all of a sudden now need to become an issue? The idea that the rather ordinary, ridiculously plain Inspector would be enough to distract Mycroft set Neil's already heated blood to boiling. If he wasn't going to be able to have Mycroft, body, mind, and soul then he was going to leave him completely unfit for anyone else. Destroyed. During the remaining span of his captivity Neil would be certain to cut away every remaining piece of the heart of Mycroft Holmes, leaving nothing but a bloody hole in its place.

Neil knew he had miscalculated, snatching Mycroft away before things had gotten a chance to sour between the two at all. The opportunity to play had been too good to resist, and now he was stuck with the task of dismantling a hopeful possibility instead of the usual broken relationship he caught Mycroft in. It was astoundingly difficult to poke holes in something that hadn't truly been established. Their bond was too new, too tenuous for Neil to actually have any hard facts that he could use to twist between the politician's ribs. Instead, he'd simply have to tear away at Mycroft using the man's general insecurities and fears. Well, at least it would be fun.

"That was a rather exceptional kiss, Mycroft. Still, I've had better," Neil grinned evilly as he worked his hand up underneath Mycroft's chin, tipping it back so his face was tilted, looking up at Neil. "You're quite distracted," he mused, leaning in to steal a kiss from his captive, locking his emerald eyes with the politician's surprised blues. "Oh, don't think that hesitation of yours went unnoticed. You're not half as clever as you think you are, Mycroft. In fact, I can even tell you what you're thinking about. It's that little pet of yours isn't it? The DI? **Please**." Neil spat the word with no small amount of venom. Stormy blue eyes regarded him coolly, but there was a lingering touch of fear beginning to seep into his expression. Neil let his fingertips slide from Mycroft's chin; digits caressing the sculpted line of his jaw before moving them upward to clamp them across the younger man's mouth even as he pushed forward, making his captive once again flush with the mattress.

"What interest could he possibly have in you," He whispered in Mycroft's ear before kissing his way down the pale column of Mycroft's throat. He stopped as he reached the juncture of neck and shoulder, taking a moment to press an almost sweet kiss in the hollow between the man's finely arched collarbones. "You can't tell me you actually thought he was serious in his interest. After all, he knew you for two years and didn't make any kind of move at all. Suddenly it's all "oh, let's have drinks"? Surely even you and your utter lack of understanding when it comes to human behavior had to figure out that something was amiss." Pulling back, Neil let a cruelly amused gaze fall on Mycroft, appreciatively drinking in the sight of despair starting to settle in over his captive's features.

"What? Oh, don't look so hurt. It's quite obvious. He's living alone now, no family to speak of, nothing but his career. Of course the easiest thing for him to do would be to fuck you and try to get a promotion out of it. Or a transfer to a better paying position. On your security team, perhaps? Maybe a paid position as Sherlock's personal handler. I can tell you what your dear Gregory wasn't looking for. And that would be any kind of emotional entanglement from **you**."

"In fact," the blonde continued, peppering his speech with kisses and the occasional bite. Mycroft alternately tensed and went slack underneath him as he let his mouth wander over the pale, freckled planes of the politician's chest. "I've had my suspicions that he's more interested in that pretty brother of yours for awhile now. I mean, he certainly sees Sherlock much more than he sees you. In fact, wasn't it his concern for your darling Sherlock that brought him to you yesterday? He's quite fond of the boy. And even though they have a bit of a tempestuous relationship, well... it's better than the blank, icy, professional nothingness that he has with you." Working his way back up, Neil bit his way along the curve of Mycroft's throat, nipping lightly and teasing the pale flesh between lips and teeth. When he reached the juncture of throat and jaw he sank his teeth into the yielding flesh in earnest, biting and sucking until a lurid purple bruise was visible. The blonde grinned hungrily as Mycroft bit back a whimper. Perfect. Just absolutely perfect. It was damn near impossible to stop. He could feel the younger man shivering beneath him, though whether it was because of the proximity of their bodies or because he was very nearly sobbing Neil couldn't tell. Or bring himself to care.

"You know you see it when Greg looks at your dear brother when they're together at crime scenes. The aggravation, the admiration, the fascination that everyone else has with dear Sherly. Your precious DI isn't immune to his magnetic personality, his impossible charisma. I'm sure underneath that rough surface of professionalism and false interest in you that he's quite smitten with the lad." The hand that wasn't clamped over Mycroft's mouth began ghosting its way down the politician's side, sweeping over the silken expanse of pale skin with feather-light brushes that made his captive squirm. The blonde criminal moved so that Mycroft's undulations moved him directly against Neil's groin, a satisfied hum filling his throat as he raked his nails down Mycroft's sides. The motion caused the younger man's hips to jump in response and Neil ground himself back into the movement, letting the man beneath him feel the pressure and heat of his arousal, evident even through his trousers.

"To be fair, why wouldn't he be? Come now, Mycroft. You're pretty enough I suppose, but Sherlock is downright gorgeous. Passionate. A bit dangerous. You're a glacier to his raging inferno. Why would anyone ever settle for you at all when they could be chasing after him? The original model has it's charms, to be sure," he purred, tracing a finger down Mycroft's exposed sternum. "But you can't deny that Sherlock is better than you in every way possible. Why chase after the shadow when you could hope to lay hands on the sun itself? Face it Mycroft. As cold and broken as you are, I'm the **only** one who wants you. I always have been the only person who can stand you." He pulled his hand back from Mycroft's mouth, crashing into him and stealing another bruising kiss. He tangled his tongue against Mycroft's, unyielding in his assault. Neil was very nearly fucking Mycroft with his tongue by the time he pulled away with a breathy growl. "And I'm the only one who ever will."

\----------------------

Mycroft was trying to shut his ears, he was trying to stop listening, but Neil was an implacable force and his voice slithered into the younger man's ears like a snake nesting under the baseboards of a house, waiting for its opportunity to strike. There was nothing he could do but lie back and listen as Neil continued his odyssey across Mycroft's alabaster skin while systematically destroying every piece of his evening with Greg.

Well, trying to destroy. Mycroft knew, of course, that it wasn't true. He knew Greg, and he certainly would have been able to tell if Greg was either interested in Sherlock or was trying to use Mycroft to get ahead. Greg had been honest, open, and completely genuine with him throughout the evening, and he hadn't imagined the connection between them. But no matter how much he told himself that was true, it was too late. Neil had sent little worms of doubt burrowing into his gray matter and they had comfortably established a home there, whispering Neil's words to him again and sending doubt echoing throughout his mind.

Sherlock was Sherlock. He had always been attractive, intelligent, fascinating to everyone he met even if they were repulsed by the stark honesty he produced that crossed lines most wouldn't dare touch. Sherlock had been set apart for what he was, but that didn't mean he wasn't coveted as well. Many people found him at the very least to be aesthetically pleasing if nothing else, though he showed no interest in return and Mycroft was beginning to wonder if there was anyone who could warm his brother's icy heart. So of course it made sense that Greg, who was in such close proximity with him most of the time, would be interested in him. Repeated exposure to something made it seem more attractive, that was just human psychology.

But it simply wasn't true. Greg saw Sherlock like he was his little brother, just like he was Danny. His protectiveness came from his efforts to make up for failing his own brother, that was just how it was. That was the simple explanation for it, completely removed from the lies Neil was trying to feed him. Neil had realized that something was preventing Mycroft from completely given in, had identified what that was, and was now trying to destroy it so there was nothing left for Mycroft to do but accept him and let Neil possess every part of him once more.

As Neil left a particularly painful and definitely obvious mark on the juncture between Mycroft's neck and jaw, Mycroft felt the first faint stirrings of what he recognized as anger in his gut. Anger wasn't an emotion he typically associated with Neil, despite all of the pain the older man had caused him. No, despair was a much more typical emotion for their encounters, and he didn't think he'd ever actually shown real anger towards Neil in any of their previous encounters. Now, however, it was there, coiling just beneath the surface of his mind, the stormy sea of emotions that had been occupying his mind since the attack the day before. He hated him for this, he hated him so fucking much for doing this to him, for the hips grinding down against his own, arousal obvious, for being a constant pressure in his life, for ruining his life on occasion, and certainly for putting the first doubts into his head about his date with Greg. But mostly, he hated Neil for being absolutely right when he said that he was the only person who wanted Mycroft. Neil had been a constant in his life since Uni, stalking him even with the threat of the full power of the British government held over him, continually trying to reassert control over Mycroft no matter how hard Mycroft pulled away. It was a twisted kind of devotion, that was for certain.

And right now, it felt like the right kind of devotion. This was all familiar, all well worn and well traveled, from the hand that had previously covered his mouth to the destruction of his self worth by Neil to the bruising kiss that left his lips a little numb and his mouth feeling like it had been violated. There was a kind of comfort that came with familiarity, and honestly, wasn't it better? He could easily fall back into the wonderful little emotional coma Neil represented, the bittersweet kind of sex and obsession that he knew so well and expected. There were few surprises with that path, and as Neil's little snakes of doubt so helpfully pointed out, he was taking a risk with Greg. He couldn't be sure what the DI's intentions were, what he really thought or felt, and letting him in was a risk. By comparison, he knew exactly what Neil wanted from him and why. Neil already knew everything about him, and probably knew him better than he knew himself, so there was no mystery. They suited each other, whether Mycroft wanted to admit it or not.

He could feel resignation settling over himself again, the shaking that had started with Neil's mark subsiding again and giving way to the type of calm that only surrender could produce. Neil was right. Of course Neil was right, he was always right, at least when it came to Mycroft. He always knew Mycroft better than he knew himself, so he was right once again, and everything would just be easier if Mycroft accepted that.

He turned his face away from Neil as soon as it was free, trying to avoid facing the man above him because maybe it would delay the inevitable. They both knew what they were doing, here. They both knew very well that Mycroft was going to give himself over just as surely as Neil was going to take everything he had and reduce him to nothing again. Nothing but Neil's. Mycroft truly hated himself for thinking that even sounded the least bit appealing.

"I didn't think Gregory had stirred up so much resentment in you, Neil," Mycroft said, his voice still in its dulcet cover to hide the resignation he knew Neil could already see. It was just for the sake of his pride, at this point, though also because he knew Neil would rather have genuine desire from him, would prefer to make Mycroft want him. It would be a larger win for him. "Jealous, are we?" He turned back to Neil again, noting the man's eyes--pupils blown wide so there was nearly no green left anyway--as they narrowed slightly at this statement. Oh yes, definitely jealous. "If you're so confident that no one else will ever want me, why are you threatened when someone does?"

He reached up with his good hand, slowly so Neil wouldn't feel the need to press him back down against the bed again, and ran it down Neil's chest to his belt, where he let it rest for a moment, his fingertips brushing just at the edge of his waistband. "Unless the truth is that you need me just as much as I need you. I'm one of a kind for you, and not just because I was the only person who managed to leave. So," he said, slipping Neil's belt out of it's buckle, "you may pretend that you're the one in control here, but really, I'm the only one in danger of leaving, aren't I?" He smiled and undid the button of Neil's trousers, unashamedly letting his fingers gently brush against Neil's arousal before withdrawing his hand again. Even if he was resigned to this, he could still play with Neil a little. It was all he could do, at this point.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which certain compromises are made.
> 
> Warnings: Explicit sexual content, dubious consent, kidnapping, emotional abuse / manipulation, blackmail, unwelcome sexual advances, general psychopathy, and just a touch more than the usual dose of heavy angst
> 
> To be blunt, as one dear friend put it, this is now pretty much emotional torture porn with actual porn.

Neil watched the doubt coil and writhe behind Mycroft's eyes with no small amount of satisfaction. Though the younger man tried to hide it, gathering himself and turning away from his captor's gaze, his uncertainty was still evident in every flicker of those stormy blue eyes. Mycroft's slight trembling had stopped as soon as he turned his face away, and Neil prepared himself for the inevitable round of 'I'm sorry's and 'please's that followed as the auburn haired man settled back into his role. But that sweet surrender never came. Instead, though still using his sultry bedroom (or boardroom?) voice, the damnable bitch was prattling on about his stupid pet again, even going so far as to outright state that Neil held some sort of jealousy towards the man. The idea was preposterous, and infuriating. What could that idiotic sod have that Neil didn't currently possess, up to and including Mycroft Holmes himself?

Then long ivory fingers were trailing down his chest, working at the buttons and zip of his fly before sweeping in and giving him a long, teasing caress. But it wasn't a gesture of need, oh no. Not with _those_ words coming out of Mycroft's mouth. It was impossible to tell if the politician meant them, or if he was just trying to wind Neil up, but in the moment it hardly mattered. What was important was that his captive was still stubbornly holding onto some misguided sense of self worth, and using that to try and turn Neil's game against him. Fury and arousal mixed, heating the criminal's blood to an almost unbearable degree. Every instinct in him screamed to wrap his hands around that slender, pale throat and squeeze until he stopped talking. The purely analytical part of Neil's brain had an odd sort of appreciation for Mycroft's play; no matter what it put him on the losing side. If Neil pulled away and left to prove that he could then Mycroft gained reprieve. But if the blonde continued to press the issue (quite literally) he'd be giving over in an entirely different, subtle way. Taking what he wanted instead of waiting for his captive to want it as badly as he did. It was an elegant strategy, and one that afforded his captor few options. The only thing that Neil could do, he realized, was to fight down the torrent of anger building within him and continue on with his previous tactic, to act as if the politician's words hadn't touched him at all. But damn. That was getting more and more difficult by the moment. Especially when he so badly wanted to throttle the man beneath him until those smug blue eyes went glassy and his body went limp. Taking a steadying breath, Neil centered himself and continued.

"Pretty words, Mycroft. But do you really mean them?" He raked his fingernails down the soft skin of Mycroft's side again, before letting his hand travel lower to ghost between the politician's legs. It was almost pleasantly surprising to find the beginnings of arousal there, the politician's body reacting to familiar stimuli despite his brain's best efforts at denying the sensations. It wasn't much, but it was at least a start. Mycroft was only half hard at best; anger and stubbornness no doubt preventing his body from fully reacting to Neil's touches.

"If you want to pretend that you really have all the power here, pet, far be it from me to stop you. Tell me," he whispered, letting his lips glide along the pale length of Mycroft's collar bone as his fingers raked themselves along the tops of the politician's hipbones. "Do you feel very powerful right now? Do you really feel quite so sure of yourself? Because those sound like the words of a very frightened man to me, a man grasping at straws so he doesn't have to admit how much he wants what he's being offered. You can try to bait me all you like. I'm not leaving this room until you admit that you need this. That you crave it. That you dream about me when I'm not around. That for all your vaunted independence," he whispered, letting his fingers work at the belt buckle and then zip of Mycroft's trousers while his lips brushed against the shell of his ear. "You simply ache for someone to make that horrible cacophony in your head stop. That you want, _desperately want_ , to be wanted by someone. Why don't you stop pretending I'm not the only person who can give you both those things?"

"And as for your DI? Well, it's less a matter of my jealousy and more a matter of my disappointment in you, Mycroft. It pains me to see you get taken advantage of like that, by someone that doesn't even possess half your intelligence. Despite what you may think I do care for you some. Because you're right in a sense. I do _want_ you. But I don't _need_ you. I never have." Obtrusive belt and zipper undone, Neil lowered his hand further to let his fingers play across the soft fabric of Mycroft's pants before withdrawing, instead lowering them further to run his fingernails up the politician's thighs, thought the bite was softened by the barrier of expensive fabric between them.

"That's the difference between us. You're driven by need, while I'm merely driven by desire. And I do desire you. All of you. Your cold nature never scared me away. Your sharp edges have never cut me. Anyone else you've pushed away has stayed gone. But no matter how often you push me away, I come back for you. Who else can you say that about? To see you pursue yet another fruitless relationship in which you'll be abandoned does irk me somewhat. It's a waste of your time. Time that could be better spent actually pursuing what you need. Which is **me**." Neil shifted his weight on top of the politician, aligning them so that one of his legs was positioned between Mycroft's, drawing his thigh up so it rested along the growing prominence in the other man's opened trousers. He peppered his speech with hot, open mouthed kisses to the sides of Mycroft's throat, stopping occasionally to nip and and worry pale flesh between his teeth before soothing it with languid sweeps of his tongue.

"I know every terrible, depraved thing you want and I've always been more than happy to give it to you. I've seen every cold, barren inch of your soul exposed, and I've never once shied away. Never once been hurt by you." Neil gave a frigid, pitiless laugh as he rocked himself against the man underneath him. "You can't even say that much about your precious Gregory can you? Regardless your motives, it was all too easy for you to do as I bid you to and cut him off, to wound him. Face it, pet. I'm the only person that could ever withstand your true nature. You're a heartless, frigid thing. Three months with you and that DI of yours would be a hollow shell of a man for trying to fill the endless emotional void inside you. Stop pretending you aren't just so you can play with the warm-blooded, and come home with me instead." The criminal was thrusting against his captive in earnest now, building the tension between them. Neil let his voice drop to its lowest register, barely above a baritone growl as he brought his face close to Mycroft's, running the tip of his tongue against the firm seam of Mycroft's compressed lips. "It's the only place you'll be safe, the only place you can go where you won't damage everyone around you. Leave them before you destroy them Mycroft, and I'll give you what you want. The quiet. The peace of relief. The numbness that you know you need. Stop wounding people to try and prove you have a heart that you don't possess."

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His body was betraying him. His mind, slowly, too, as he began to lose rational thought as his body started reacting to Neil, encouraging Neil in every way it could even as Mycroft tried to clamp down on those instincts. It was a losing battle, he knew that, that started out strong and then nearly gave up by the time that Neil was thrusting against him in earnest, the friction between them sending little waves of pleasure through Mycroft even as Neil's words carved a bloody path from his head into his heart.

_"Stop pretending you aren't just so you can play with the warm-blooded, and come home with me instead. It's the only place you'll be safe, the only place you can go where you won't damage everyone around you. Leave them before you destroy them Mycroft, and I'll give you what you want. The quiet. The peace of relief. The numbness that you know you need. Stop wounding people to try and prove you have a heart that you don't possess."_

That was the instant that Mycroft Holmes surrendered. No more playing, no more games, no more hiding behind half-earnest protests against Neil. Something dropped out of his body, the tension that had been steeling him against this latest attack from Neil, replaced with the physical tension that Neil was doing his very best to build between them and that now had Mycroft's breath hitching in his throat as he lay back on the bed, his hips angling up to meet Neil more fully and increase the friction between them. No, there was no denying at this point that he wanted this, not when his entire body was quite clearly screaming otherwise. He'd never been able to deny Neil for long anyway, had he? Neil just had a way of getting in--into his body, into his mind, into his very soul it seemed--that no one else could match. No matter the defenses Mycroft built, no matter the time apart, Neil always found a way back in. And Mycroft was starting to believe that was the way it would be forever. So he might as well give up now and save himself the fight, right? If Neil was just going to keep coming back for him, it made the most sense for him to give up and give in to him now. In the past, he'd been the only one hurt when he rejected Neil, but that wasn't the case now. He'd gotten both Sherlock and Greg involved, gotten Anthea worried as well, and for what?

Neil wasn't going to give up on him. That much was obvious, Neil himself had basically just said it a minute ago. And it was true in many ways that Neil was the only one who could give him certain things. Neil had always seemed to be attuned to Mycroft's needs and desires, more than Mycroft himself was, it was just another one of those things that made it that much easier for Neil to pull him back in again. They had, at one point in time, made a pretty fine pair, after all. The prodigy and the politician, though now it would be more accurate to say the politician and the criminal. They had worked well together when Neil wasn't busy destroying Mycroft's self-esteem...

"You're right," Mycroft said, his voice breathier than he'd intended it due to his growing arousal under Neil's ministrations. He closed his eyes slightly, his breath hitching at a particularly hard thrust from the older man, but he opened them again to connect visually with him, meeting desirous green with miserable blue. "You're really the only person for me, and I should accept that now, I suppose..."

He let his voice trail off as he leaned up to kiss his way down Neil's neck, his movements earnest now, born out of a real desire instead of one play-acted for the benefit of both parties. His lips were quick, impatient, burning, though he paused at the curve where Neil's neck met his shoulder before drawing the skin into his mouth and sucking languidly, only pulling back when he was sure a significant mark had been left. He ground his hips up against Neil's, unsure whether the resulting gasp came from him or the other man, and then attempted to continue speaking, though it was getting increasingly more difficult when Neil was pressing against him like that.

"I'm...yours," Mycroft said, the last word a soft exhale as his hand trailed down Neil's chest towards his open trousers. "I want you, and this, and everything you so eloquently said that you provide me when no one else does. I didn't think that was actually a question for you, Neil, but if it is, I'm answering it. I'll stay with you. You. Win." And with that he slipped his hand into Neil's trousers, stroking the other man gently, teasingly through the fabric of his pants as a punctuation to his sentence. Neil had won, and Mycroft wasn't going anywhere. Not for the time being.

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The delicious feeling of tension that was building between them was finally beginning to erode Mycroft's barriers. Neil could feel it in the way that those lovely, slender hips tipped up into his, the way that the politician's breathy gasps hitched in his throat. The very moment of his surrender was tangible. The last of the tension dropped out of his body, and he melded himself against Neil's slightly larger frame.

Mycroft's soft, ragged " _You're right_ " sent spikes of pleasure coursing down Neil's spine to pool hot and heavy low in his abdomen. God. There was nothing more satisfying than finally molding Mycroft to his will. The " _I suppose_ " that followed made the admission more of a bend than a break, but it was the in that Neil needed to fully splinter the politician before putting him back together in a fashion more to his liking.

As the politician leaned up, his lips met the skin of his neck, moving with a feverish insistence that caused a series of pleasured pulses to shoot through Neil's groin. When teeth and tongue lathed the skin at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, the criminal positively purred. The embrace would undoubtedly leave a mark, but the blonde couldn't bring himself to care. There was something intoxicating about Mycroft "Iceman" Holmes coming unraveled beneath him. He gave a satisfied groan as he pressed himself down against his captive. No, not his captive. Not for much longer. Soon, so soon, Mycroft would just simply be his. No quantifiers. Just _**his**_.

And finally, the dam broke. The walls came down. Mycroft's voice was husky as he whispered "I'm yours" as he trailed his long, pale digits down the criminal's exposed chest. Neil gave a groan, hips stuttering involuntarily as Mycroft's lithe fingers teasingly stroked down his length through the barrier of his pants. Still, it wasn't enough to just say the words. That would be too easy, allowing the younger man to remain passive in his acquiescence. No, there was a much better way to celebrate his triumph.

"Pretty words, pet. But I'm disinclined to believe them. After all, you've built a career out of sweet lies and insincerities." After one final thrust into Mycroft's teasing fingers, the criminal pulled off the younger man entirely, green eyes raking hungrily up and down his disheveled frame. He let his fingers wander over the pale expanse of Mycroft's exposed chest, grazing his thumbs across the firm buds of his nipples before completely withdrawing. With a languid smile, he leaned himself back against the headboard, lacing his fingers together and positioning his hands behind his head.

"Actions speak louder than words. You say that you're mine?" Emerald eyes shone with lust and challenge. "Prove it, pet. Prove it."

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This was the part where Neil was supposed to give in and give Mycroft what he wanted, no doubt gloating the entire time and generally making sure the younger man didn't forget for a second that a) he belonged to Neil and b) he had chosen this entirely of his own accord. Well, with just a little pushing from Neil, at least. Instead of doing any of that, however, Neil did something much worse. He pulled away entirely, giving one final teasing swipe over Mycroft's nipples before he settled back against the headboard, practically oozing self-satisfaction as he challenged Mycroft to prove himself. Prove that he was really and truly giving himself over to Neil mind, body, and soul.

Bastard. Breaking Mycroft was never quite enough for him, he had to have Mycroft acknowledge the fact that he'd lost as well, have him prove it. It was sick, and it was unnecessary, and it was entirely Neil. And Mycroft was going to comply, because at this point he was just as aroused as Neil and if he didn't follow through, the noise in his head was going to be too much to bear again. So instead he smiled, righting himself again on the bed--with a little difficulty because of the arm in the sling--and found his way onto his knees in front of where Neil was stretched out, waiting for him with obvious pleasure at his complete and utter degradation and destruction of Mycroft Holmes.

"First, we have to get you out of some of those clothes," Mycroft said, his voice a low purr that could--and had, actually--charm almost any diplomat into bed, or charm them while they were in it. He started with Neil's trousers, as those were the closest thing and also mostly in the way, efficiently dispatching Neil's shoes before tugging down the trousers themselves, letting them land on the floor next to the discarded shoes, Mycroft's own shoes long since kicked off as his legs had been hanging off the edge of the bed for a large chunk of time. It was hard to believe that this was the same bed that he'd been having nightmares in not a half hour ago. _Now is not the time to think about that, Mycroft. You woke up and went directly into another nightmare._

The trousers out of his way, he positioned himself somewhere between Neil's legs, his good arm on the other side of one to brace his weight as he leaned down to kiss the inside of Neil's thigh, starting just above the knee and working his way up, enjoying the slight tremor the higher up his lips got. Just as he got to the juncture where the leg met the groin, however, he switched legs, working his way up the other one with kisses that were just as light and tantalizing, until he stopped in the middle of his path and bit down gently on Neil's inner thigh, taking the skin lightly in his teeth and lathing it with his tongue until he was satisfied and pulled away again, a red mark like a smear of lipstick left on Neil's thigh.

"Really, Neil, you seemed so confident that I didn't think you needed me to prove anything," Mycroft said with a smile directed at Neil. But he wasn't trying to rile the other man up anymore, oh no. This was just a little teasing, a light, playful banter between the two that could almost pass for flirting if that was something either of them were capable of with each other anymore. He shifted closer to the other man, choosing to straddle his lap now in a show of submission he was sure Neil would appreciate. He seriously wondered if Neil would enjoy him baring his throat for him like a wolf would in recognition of its alpha. Yes, he probably would, actually, and Mycroft turned his head to stretch out his pale neck invitingly.

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Neil could feel his fingers tense in anticipation as Mycroft's long, lithe digits skillfully worked him out of his shoes and trousers. They ached with the memory of being tangled deep in auburn hair, very nearly demanding that they be let loose to play havoc over the younger man's scalp. Neil did not oblige them, instead opting to tighten the way his fingers were laced together so as not to give into the temptation. Degrading Mycroft was one thing; taking that quicksilver mind and reducing it to an ocean of white noise and base, quivering need. But to force the other man to put himself in such a state was an artfulness that Neil felt particularly pleased with himself for thinking up. Later he'd take Mycroft and pin him, strip him down physically and mentally until he was little more than a shaking, sobbing wreck for more of Neil's ministrations. He'd write his ownership of Mycroft Holmes into the man's skin with teeth and fingernails, search out every square inch of pale, freckled skin and make it sing with pain and need.

For now, the pleasured feeling of control came from the lack of hesitation Neil felt in the other man's wounded body; savoring the smooth ease with which Mycroft lowered his head between his tanned, spread legs. A devilishly talented mouth worked its way up the inside of his thigh, the firm feel of the politician's previously unyielding mouth melding itself to the soft curvature of the juncture between hip and groin causing the criminal to tremble slightly with anticipation. But instead of moving that sinful mouth up to the positively aching length that resided just millimeters away from those tempting lips Mycroft switched sides, lavishing the other thigh with the same exquisite dance of lips and teeth. Neil bit back a low groan as Mycroft stopped mid-thigh and bit down on the sensitive flesh, working it skillfully between teeth and tongue before letting go _just_ before the sensation crossed the muddy border between pleasured pain and simply pain. Green eyes cast downwards, enjoying the contrast of the red, raw spot against the rest of his tanned flesh. The criminal's fingers twitched again, knotted with the effort of keeping themselves still instead of working themselves deeply in his captive's hair and tugging that teasing mouth up to properly bestow it's attentions on Neil's rigid cock.

Before he could get properly angry for the teasing (but oh, it was tantalizing and enjoyable in and of itself) Mycroft tipped his head back, exposing the ivory column of his throat to Neil. The gesture produced a rather pronounced surge of lust that coursed through the blonde's already heated system. He finally untangled his fingers and removed them from behind his head. One broad hand placed itself on the small of the politician's back to pull him closer, rolling his hips slowly up into the other man at the same time. The resulting shiver that passed through Mycroft's body was addictive, and Neil repeated the motion just to see more of those normally stoic blue eyes flutter closed. God, wasn't he a sight. Throat bared, blue eyes nearly eclipsed by the dark of his pupils, firm mouth parted slightly as he took soft, panting breaths. Unable to resist the invitation of Mycroft's exposed throat Neil brought his free hand up, running the back of his knuckles down Mycroft's jugular before possessively cupping his hand around the base of the politician's neck. Not enough to choke the man, but enough so he could feel the warmth of Neil's palm, feel the slight constriction on his airway. He gave an almost-gentle squeeze, emerald eyes blazing with possessiveness and lust as he pulled Mycroft forward into a heated kiss. When the politician's mouth slid pliantly open for him, Neil gave a growl of appreciation. Hungrily, he moved his lips and tongue across every surface of the other man's mouth, savoring the semi-sweet flavor that belonged to Mycroft and Mycroft alone. With another possessive squeeze to the elegant column of Mycroft's throat, he retreated slightly slightly to worry the flesh of the politician's lower lip between his teeth.

'More," he growled, dropping his hold on the bureaucrat's neck. His fingertips worked their way down the pale expanse of Mycroft's chest, stopping at one dusky nipple to give it a light, teasing pinch. When his captive's body responded with a sinfully delightful tremor, Neil rolled the sensitive bud of flesh between thumb and forefinger until the man finally cried out. "Show me that you need this. The pain. It's the closest you can get to feeling human," he murmured, tone of voice almost loving despite the harshness of his words.

"Or would you perhaps prefer that I goad you on with cruelty instead? You need that too. The cutting truth of my words. It makes you almost feel as if you have a heart, doesn't it? When I tear away those carefully crafted lies you tell yourself, leaving only an ache in your chest where your heart should be." Neil let his fingers play across Mycroft's pectorals, stopping to give his other nipple the same treatment; tweaking it slowly and firmly until the politician's breath came to him only in ragged, short gasps.

"I'm the only person who can make you feel anything but hollow. Now convince me that you're sorry for leaving, pet. Admit you missed me. Show me how much you needed this, how much you regret not having me lay you bare and quiet that mind of yours." It was amazing that he managed to get the words out, thick as his voice was with lust. Still, for as badly as he wanted to simply flip the younger man and take everything that was being offered, making Mycroft beg for his own debauchery was too perfect. Neil's overwhelming drive to see Mycroft humbled, aching and begging overrode his own (not-insignificant) need for release. Taking a breath to steady himself, he continued his verbal assault as he let his hand drop across Mycroft's abdomen, reaching into his open trousers to stroke teasing fingertips against the thickened length pressing against the silken fabric of his pants. "And when you've proven yourself suitably sorry, when I can **feel** your desperation for me, I'll make it better."

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Once Mycroft accepted his fate and gave in, everything was so much easier. It was no longer a battle between his body and mind, a struggle that threatened to tear apart his already fragile psyche with the force of the division. Instead he could just slip into his role, repeating motions he knew so very well to appease both his body and mind, both of them working towards the shared goal of white noise and a hormone-induced high. He didn't care anymore that it meant completely submitting himself to Neil. He didn't care that it meant begging this psychopath to fuck him into the mattress, didn't care that it meant breaking years of sobriety from Neil, didn't care even that it meant allowing Neil to possess him again, to claim him, to own him.

It allowed him to easily cede control to Neil, not even a hint of panic fluttering in his stomach when Neil's fingers wrapped around the base of his throat and squeezed, the touch gentle, a friendly reminder instead of a warning. There was no harm in letting Neil do this; it was their way of reacquainting themselves, in a way. Mycroft reaffirming his submission while Neil reaffirmed his possession, from the almost loving, barely constricting throat squeezes to the more painful but also more teasing play across his chest and nipples. Mycroft was slowly becoming unraveled under Neil's hands, the words the older, demanding man was still insisting on saying washing over him and leaving little in their wake. His brain was busy shutting itself down in anticipation of what was to come, but enough of it remained active that he registered Neil's words and had time to start running through the best ways to please the other man. The best things he could say, the best actions he could take--Neil was a familiar equation and Mycroft could solve him in seconds.

He could hate himself for this later. He would, in fact, hate himself for this later, he knew that with no small amount of certainty, but not now. Now he was focused entirely on pleasing Neil, willing, submissive, eager to please, just like when they were at Uni. Now that he'd given in, it was much easier to see this as a heated reunion with a former lover instead of the captor-captive situation it was. Well, then, time to reminisce like Neil wanted him to. He was about to speak, to give Neil the admissions he wanted, when Neil's fingers began to gently stroke his already unbearably heavy arousal through his pants, causing his hips to stutter towards Neil's hand unconsciously. God, that made it that much harder to concentrate, and it wasn't nearly enough friction for him at the moment.

He dipped his hips down, making sure to grind as fully against Neil as he could and earning a gasp for his efforts that restored a smile to his lips, all artifice gone out of his expressions. His hips settled into a rhythm, first rubbing down teasingly against Neil before bumping against Neil's hand, the contact creating friction for both of them and hopefully leading Neil one step closer to the inevitable conclusion of this tryst. It also, however, took some of Mycroft's breath away,

"Neil," he breathed, his breath hot and labored against Neil's ear as he leaned in close to him, bracing himself against the headboard behind Neil with his uninjured arm, "you must know that you're the only person left on this earth who can make Mycroft Holmes desperate. I **need** you. Even when I was away from you, I was never really away. I've dreamt of you since Uni, did I ever enlighten you about that?"

He pulled away enough to see the look in Neil's emerald eyes and then leaned back in, the right amount of surprise, pleasure and hunger in the other man's gaze. "Oh, I tried to get rid of you, I burned you out of every part of my conscious thoughts, but my subconscious couldn't ignore you. I used to dream about you nearly every night. Sometimes you'd tell me lies like you did in Uni, telling me I was gorgeous or clever or that you loved me. Sometimes you'd be there to drown me, and I'd have a nightmare instead. And sometimes you would just fuck me." The curse word sounded even filthier coming out in his posh accent, and he delighted in the shiver that skittered down Neil's spine as a result. He rarely swore and when he did it was almost always for effect. Neil used to try to bait him into swearing and instead Mycroft would save it for the bedroom, using it when the other man least expected it and pleasing him an inordinate amount with each use.

"No," he said, his hips dipping just slightly lower in their rhythm as his teeth just grazed the shell of Neil's ear, "I never really managed to get away from you. The only time I ever truly felt disconnected from you was just before my accident." A sore spot, to be sure, but in his current state Mycroft didn't find the thought of the accident that alarming. He also didn't spare a thought for the fact that the man whose lap he was currently gyrating against had nearly killed him then just out of spite. "Even when I left you at Uni, I barely got away. If not for the government, I would have never left. Thoughts of you consumed me while I was away, and I nearly came running right back to you."

A nip to Neil's earlobe, sharp and unexpected, punctuated his sentence as his fingers wound themselves through the thick strands of Neil's blonde hair. Not a sign of control, no, just a grip to anchor him as his legs slipped open a little further, settling himself more fully on Neil's lap as he gave a slight groan. None of this was enough. He needed Neil. Now, preferably. "So to say--" an open mouthed kiss to the side of Neil's throat "--that I missed you would be an understatement. How can I miss you when you never really left me?" A trail of heated kisses that led down Neil's neck and chest. "No, dear, you positively **possessed** me. I've been living a haunted life because of you, and you know what?" He paused to look up at Neil, stark honesty in his eyes bolstered by the lust lingering there as well. "I still love you for it." He smiled, and promptly latched onto Neil's nearest nipple with his mouth and tongue, grazing his teeth across it as well for good measure.

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Neil could positively feel the surrender wash over Mycroft in a wave, washing over the younger man to leave pliancy and lust in its wake. The lovely, stoic pacifism that finally settled over his aristocratic features was delicious; capitulation softening the hard lines of his face, lips transitioning from a grim line to a sensual, almost pouty part. The change in Mycroft's demeanor was all the more pronounced by the stark contrast of wide black pupils against the thin slivers of stormy blue irises that remained. When Mycroft began rocking himself against Neil's lap, alternately pushing himself against his rigid arousal and thrusting against his hand, the criminal couldn't help but gasp his appreciation. The politician seemed to lose his breath as well; pale chest moving with the soft, shallow pants that whispered through his parted lips.

Mycroft molded his body to Neil's, bracing himself against the headboard with his good arm while allowing the rest of his body to slide gracefully along the blonde's torso and lap. Warm lips were on his ear, breathing positively sinful admissions of the politicians long running, long denied desires. A few years of abstinence from his addiction made Mycroft more eloquent than Neil had remembered him being; each elaborately well worded confession causing a spike of pleasure to pulse through his groin.

True or not, the huskily spoken admissions struck Neil with a vicious, searing lust that branded him to the core. And when Mycroft swore, something hot and hungry unfurled along his spine, traveling downwards to coil tightly in his abdomen. The pain of the unexpected nip to his ear focused him, cutting through the lust addled haze so he could truly focus on Mycroft's words. _"I still love you for it."_ It was everything that the criminal could do to not break out in a triumphant smile. The revelation was so perfectly worded and beautifully un-coerced. Hopefully the audio would be intelligible on the security tapes. It was more than Neil possibly could have hoped for. Not only could the blonde listen to those throatily spoken words endlessly, but imagining the reaction that Mycroft's pet DI would have when hearing them sent a jolt of elation through the criminal. Neil had been so certain that he'd have to do all the work to make sure that his captive went back to a life completely shattered. Instead, his auburn haired prodigy was doing a delicious job of that for him.

And when that hot, positively filthy mouth and clever tongue began to work at his chest, lathing his nipple with teeth and tongue, sudden inspiration struck. As Mycroft continued cause ripples of pleasure to course through him, using his skilled mouth to travel the planes of Neil's chest, the criminal began to speak. Voice low, he could feel the words rumble in his chest as he issued his demands.

"You want this," he guided Mycroft's hand between his legs, pressing the politician's lithe digits into the heated flesh of his arousal. It wasn't a question, but more a simple statement of fact. The hungry moan that Mycroft gave when his fingers pressed against the criminal's rigid length served to punctuate the truth of Neil's assertion. "So take it," he growled. No, the game wasn't finished. Not quite yet. Surrender and submission were one step. Confession was another. The final piece that was missing was Mycroft's complete abandonment, and they were rapidly hurtling towards that goal as well.

"Go on then, pet. You know you want to fuck yourself senseless on me." Neil's voice was barely more than a growl. He pressed into Mycroft's hand against him as he thrust upward, punctuating every couple of words with a sharp thrust that jolted the man atop him. "Strip those trousers of yours off and get up here. Show me exactly what you've wanted for the past couple of years. Spread yourself for me and work me with every ounce of desperation in your body."

"I won't judge you, not like everyone else would. I'm the only one who understands this burning need you have, and I'm the only one who can satisfy it." Neil gave a predatory grin as he cast emerald eyes over his captive's face. Mycroft was flushed, a delicate pink highlighting his cheekbones and lips reddened and somewhat raw from kissing. The normally eloquent politician gave an incoherent gasp in time with each thrust of Neil's hips, and a terrible tension caused every muscle in his body to tremble with anticipation. It was so tempting to satisfy the burning ache in the other man, but the criminal pressed forward, voice thick as he continued to speak. "You've been aching for it for years." Neil's voice was gravelly with want, but he continued to hold fast to his plan, It was getting harder and harder to resist the nearly overwhelming urge to simply throw the auburn haired man down and fuck him hard and fast. But the idea of Mycroft being the one to fully consummate their reunion was still just barely enough to hold him back. The rewards of having Mycroft ride him in glorious desperation would be beyond description.

"There's lubricant in the bedside table," he growled. Losing a bit of his self control, Neil wound one hand through disheveled auburn locks and tugged Mycroft's plush mouth down for a searing kiss. He gave an affectionate nip to the velvety expanse of the politician's lower lip as he pulled away, fixing Mycroft with a criminally satisfied grin. "Now demonstrate for me exactly what it is you've been dreaming about, pet."

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There was a thick haze settling over Mycroft's brain, a pleasant buzz that was serving to temporarily hold back the bombardment of thoughts that usually assaulted him in his every waking moment. Words were failing him entirely, leaving him an incoherent, gasping mess at every thrust of Neil's hips towards him. He needed so much more than this, he needed it now if he wanted the rest of the noise in his head to go away and both his body and brain were quite enthusiastically telling him that yes, god yes he wanted that. Needed it.

Some distant part of his brain recognized the fact that this was another manipulation on Neil's part as Neil told him to take what he wanted. Neil was making it absolutely clear that he wasn't taking anything from Mycroft; no, the younger man was willingly giving himself over, mind, body, and soul, though Neil had been the one to push him to this point. He wanted Mycroft's absolute surrender and wasn't going to settle for anything less, and Mycroft, God help him, was going to obey, because he was already past the point of caring and there was just desire, heavy enough that he was absolutely shaking with want.

It was amazing that he even managed to get his trousers and pants off with how much his fingers were trembling, but somehow they were off and found their way to the floor next to Neil's discarded clothing. It was awkward, leaving his unbuttoned shirt on, but there was no way that was coming off around the sling so Mycroft ignored it and reached over to the nightstand to rifle through the drawer. True to Neil's word, there was lubricant there, though no condoms, which made Mycroft frown, coming out of his lusty haze for a second before he slipped back in and shut the drawer, his want overcoming his concern for safety. Neil had always been clean and Mycroft doubted the older man would suddenly stop being careful about that, and he himself was clean and really, they were too far along now to stop for the length of time required to obtain one--which he was sure Neil had planned--so he could make an exception. For Neil, all he ever did was make exceptions.

His preparation of himself was quick and efficient, wasting no time and doing little more than effectively preparing himself for Neil, who he slicked up as well, though the other man hardly seemed to need it with the amount of pre-come already leaking from him. Bracing himself against the headboard behind Neil, their torsos flush and their faces inches apart, Mycroft carefully guided his entrance over Neil, taking a deep, steadying breath before he slowly guided himself down onto Neil. There was a short period of discomfort, as usual--it had been a while, and his preparation had perhaps been hastier than it should have been--but the burn of the stretch faded after a minute and he rocked his hips experimentally, earning a groan from Neil that sadly sent a thrill of pride through Mycroft.

His movements picked up a little speed, his hips rolling against Neil as he began to ride him, slowly at first, leaning his body forward and back as he tried to find the proper angle on the other man. Neil was impatient and probably about ready to just throw him down and take him brutally fast--which was what Mycroft wanted at this point, honestly, practically aching with desire--but Mycroft couldn't find the right angle until he leaned forward and--oh. Oh, there, that was it, and suddenly it was like a tightly stretched elastic had snapped and Mycroft's hips started moving with abandon, speed picking up quickly as he rolled down against Neil, moaning as he repeatedly hit the one spot he needed to hit. And just like that, his brain shut off, and he lost himself in the rolling waves of sensation overtaking him, finally finding that delicious blankness that he'd mostly been missing since he left Neil.

Mycroft lost control of himself. All thoughts fled from his mind aside from the sensations he was experiencing, the feeling of being in this moment, right here, right now, with Neil. Neil, whose name was spilling from Mycroft's lips, intermingled with moans and breathy words and unintelligible noises as he guided himself up and down on the other man. He'd forgotten this. He'd forgotten just how good this was, how different and goddamn _good_ this was with Neil, who had always been able to make him come undone better than anyone else. Neil was right; he'd been dreaming about this for years, no matter how hard he tried to hide it or how deeply inside himself he hid those feelings away. Neil was what he needed. And right now, Neil was absolutely, completely, entirely his. And he was Neil's.

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Long ivory fingers shook slightly as they worked the button of Mycroft's expensive trousers, and Neil's own thicker digits twitched in sympathy. The normally posh, elegant politician was teetering on the edge of utter surrender, trembling with a cocktail of lust and frustration that had his pupils blown wide and his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Even with one arm bound up in a sling, the younger man made short work of trousers and pants. The contrast between the expensive cotton shirt hanging open from his shoulders and the full nudity of his lower body was amazingly arousing, and Neil felt the heavy feeling of lust begin to transition to sharp pangs of need as Mycroft lithely arched over him to retrieve the lubricant. The wet sound and obscene glisten on pale digits as the politician slicked his hand only served to further the blonde's ravenous desire for his aristocratic partner.

The soft keening noises that Mycroft made as he rode his own fingers in preparation for Neil sent sparks of lust skittering across the blonde's entire nervous system. A sharp, insistent pulse started low in his abdomen; muscles almost uncomfortably tense as he held himself rigidly still. Then elegant hands were wrapped around him, slicking him quickly and efficiently. Neil bit back a moan as they withdrew, quickly becoming insatiable for more sensation, more contact, more friction, more **Mycroft**. Fortunately before his momentary break in finely honed control derailed his plans, the politician was straddling him, sinking downward and engulfing Neil in searingly tight heat.

The discomfort of the initial penetration was evident on the younger man's face, frozen in a look of concentration as he stilled momentarily to adjust. Neil tensed his thighs in response, holding them until they ached so as not to simply start thrusting up into Mycroft's willing body. After a moment, those pale hips began to rock against him and the immense groan that Neil had been holding back finally escaped his lips. God. Mycroft was so tight, so fucking hot and so perfect in his wanton abandonment. What a damned good show he was putting on; completely unaware of how enticing he looked with a thin sheen of sweat coating his pale neck and chest.

Blue eyes fluttered closed in a combination of concentration and ecstasy as the younger man increased his tempo. The soft convulsions of his body as Mycroft searched for the perfect angle sent answering tremors coursing through Neil's system. A tingling line of fire pulsed down his spine, each breathy moan the younger man made serving only to heighten each sensation that coursed through the criminal. Then Mycroft leaned forward, head nearly resting on one of Neil's broad shoulders as he rolled his hips, moaning as his entire body wracked with pleasured tremors. The last of the auburn haired man's self control finally receded, and he began to buck against Neil in thrusts that increased in both speed and force.

His normally flawlessly groomed hair sat atop his head in a disarrayed auburn wreck, his lips swollen and red from the forceful kisses of earlier. Pink, budded nipples peaked eagerly from his slightly flushed chest, and pale thighs trembled with the force of his exertion as well as the cresting orgasm that Neil could feel tightening every muscle in the politician's lower abdomen.

His voice rich with unabashed bliss, moaning Neil's name in an obscenely low register in-between panting breaths. Tanned fingers threaded themselves through mussed, sweat dampened hair. Neil let his digits tangle in the fine auburn strands as he tugged insistently. He brought Mycroft's mouth close to his own, interrupting the soft litany of Neil's name and incoherent murmurings with a punishing kiss. When he pulled back he kept a handful of the auburn locks, tugging gently back so that Mycroft's pale throat arched back and his blissed-out face would be exposed to the security camera. The thought of the look on Lestrade's face as he watched Mycroft get blissfully fucked finally snapped the criminal's remaining self control, and he began to thrust his hips upward to meet every one of the politician's downward arcs.

"T-that's right, pet," Neil managed to growl out, his voice sounding strange and almost unintelligible in his own ears. The things Mycroft did to him were so far beyond anything the criminal had experienced in previous years that they didn't even merit comparison. Nothing, no-one could compare to the feeling of reducing Mycroft Holmes and his nigh omnipresent self control to a shuddering, wanton wreck. Almost without warning he could feel the inevitable crest upon him; colors flashed at the edges of his vision as Mycroft rode him with wild abandon. Any composure the normally posh man possessed was long abandoned, and the complete rawness of his surrender finally pushed Neil over the edge.

His arousal throbbed in time with his heartbeat as he pulsed deeply into Mycroft's crushing heat, making sure to thrust his way through orgasm to keep pressure crashing across the hypersensitive bundle of nerves buried within the politician. Each thrust earned him a keening cry, but Mycroft seemed to hover endlessly on edge, nothing at all pushing him over into the oblivion that Neil had experienced. What was missing? What more could he possibly need? The criminal wracked his orgasm clouded mind for answers, and gave a feral smile when he realized what the issue was. Permission. Even after two years of freedom, when fucking Neil he still needed permission to achieve completion. Another tug on auburn hair had Mycroft gasping and whimpering in tandem. Neil's voice was hoarse with overuse and thick with lust, but he managed to wrap his fingers around Mycroft's length and bark out a final command for his aristocratic partner to follow.

"Tell me who you belong to, and **then** you have my permission to come."

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The things that Neil was making him feel should have been illegal. Mycroft was too far gone to be sure whether Neil was aiming his hips or not, but every roll sent another wave of pleasure through him, like electric sparks skittering along his skin next to each other. Sharp, but irresistible all the same. And then he knew Neil was aiming on purpose when the older man came but continued thrusting, hitting the same bullseye over and over again in a way that had Mycroft keening atop him, on the verge of begging for a relief that never seemed to come.

Heat, heat, everything was hot to the touch and Neil was burning up inside him, the older man's skin coated in sweat as well. Mycroft could feel the very different, much worse type of heat that was coiled tightly in his abdomen, nearly hard enough to hurt and certainly ready to release at the slightest provocation. He had to bite back a whine when Neil's fingers wrapped around him, not moving but just resting, a reminder of his reward if he obeyed Neil's latest command. Mycroft did it without a second thought.

"You," he panted, but Neil didn't seem satisfied with his answer and his cerulean eyes went nearly desperate, a slight whine rising and making it out of his throat this time. "You, I belong to you!" A twist of Neil's wrist and Mycroft was over the edge, his lips parted as he rode out an orgasm that covered Neil's hand and lower abdomen, his uninjured hand gripping Neil's shoulder for balance as he rode the crest of an unbelievable high. Perfect silence reigned in his mind, his thoughts shocked into a stupor that didn't clear even when his vision did, slipping off of Neil to lie next to him and panting to regain his breath.

One, two, three. His heart rate was going back down, steadily climbing back down from the lofty heights it had achieved. Thank God, Neil was staying silent and letting Mycroft enjoy this, though Mycroft doubted that that was out of courtesy, more likely because Neil himself was recovering and gloating internally, celebrating an _extremely_ successful reunion with Mycroft. As twisted as their relationship was, it had always been based on a frightening intensity of chemistry that set Mycroft on edge and had made Neil perpetually hungry. It had helped draw them together in the beginning, keep them together--especially with amazing sex--and made it harder for Mycroft to pull away in the end.

He'd never found anyone that compared to Neil. Years had gone by, a string of lovers that ranged in their time in his company from one night to several months, and yet no one had ever been able to absolutely wreck him like Neil. Mycroft could never quite completely submit to anyone the way he did to Neil, and certainly he wouldn't wait for anyone's permission to climax like he did with Neil. That was ingrained in him even now, even after two years, a conditioned behavior that in the heat of the moment hadn't even occurred to him to rebel against. He had to have Neil's permission, he had to wait for Neil's approval even before completion, that was just how it was, and Mycroft didn't bother arguing with himself about it. And now, lying here with the man that had destroyed him yet again in bed, Mycroft still couldn't find it in himself to care. His mind was quiet for once, still and calm in only the way that Neil could make it, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up with his head on Neil's chest and the older man's arms around him because it would be the most affection he'd received in a long time and that sounded immensely appealing to him right now.

So that's what he did. He rolled so he could put his head on Neil's shoulder, knowing that in all likelihood the other man would push him away within minutes, possibly seconds. There was no thought in his head that this was wrong, just a need for approval and affection and the fear of rejection that always came with Neil. Consequences would catch up later. For now, Mycroft let himself revel in the contented haze in his mind and body, curling as close to Neil as he dared to seek the affection he so craved from the other man. Old habits died so very, very hard, didn't they?

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At the cried admission of ownership, Neil finally delivered the fateful stroke that sent his partner crashing over the edge he had been precariously balanced on for so long. Mycroft's hips rolled and stuttered involuntarily as his entire body tensed with the force of his release. He continued to ride Neil through his completion, the contractions of his body applying exquisite, almost painful pressure and friction to the oversensitive flesh of the blonde's fading arousal. It was almost a relief when the younger man rolled off of him, gasping hard against the older man's heaving side. They stayed like that for a few quiet moments, barely touching each other, panting to regain their lost breath. Everything was washed in a hazy blanket of pleasure, and Neil let himself float in a sea of mental and physical satisfaction. Nobody broke like Mycroft Holmes. Nobody.

It wasn't long before the slightly smaller man rolled towards him and nuzzled up against his shoulder. His hesitancy and fear made him seem more delicate that he was, and Neil absentmindedly traced a finger across one of his elegant cheekbone in appreciation of the almost frailty of the man curled in beside him. It was unlike Mycroft, or at least the adult politician that the man had been for some years, to be so fragile. As loathe as Neil was to admit it, Mycroft Holmes the government official was a force to be reckoned with. But Mycroft Holmes, Neil Gibson's captive and paramour, was an entirely different matter. That Mycroft was much more akin to the shy, delicate student that Neil had positively consumed during their University years.

After a few sweet minutes of affectionate entanglement, endured for the sake of the camera, Neil pulled out of their embrace. Without any words, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, glaring coolly down at a rather surprised Mycroft who had been unceremoniously deposited on the mattress by Neil's departure.

Neil's icy laugh lowered the temperature in the room by several degrees. Cruel green eyes cast an almost pitying look down at the man beneath him as he prepared his cutting words, crafted with a near surgical precision to slash away at the remaining pieces of Mycroft's heart. "Well, that was... interesting. Tell me Mycroft, did you take pointers on essentially selling your ass for drugs from your junkie brother, or did not even he have to stoop this low?" He punctuated his words by snatching the bottle of painkillers off the nightstand, chucking them carelessly at Mycroft's still-flushed chest. "Here. I suppose you've earned these, no matter if your whoring techniques were picked up from your brother or are merely instinctual to you."

"So what do you think Sherlock will think of all this, after all your efforts to keep him clean? I'm sure you'll be afforded the opportunity to discuss it with him soon. You two can even share scoring techniques!" The criminal gave a mirthless laugh, smirk growing into a full sneer as he kept attacking his captive with envenomed words. "So, tell me Mycroft. How close do you suppose they're getting, looking for you? And are you looking forward to going home, sharing a tender and sweet reunion with your dear brother and pet DI?

"Well, not to completely rain on your parade my dear, but once Greg sees the little present I'm going to send him, how long do you think it will be before he turns to that ravishing brother of yours for some sort of consolation?" He gave a delighted chuckle at the absolute terror in Mycroft's eyes as he gestured to the security camera in the ceiling, the very one that the politician had used to speak to him not so long ago.

"Oh darling, you can't possibly begin to pretend that you didn't know that I'd be recording this. But you've put on such a delightful show. It'd be criminal of me to not show Gregory exactly what it is he's missing out on. Though sending it to him would be too easy." Retrieving his trousers off the floor, he stepped into them, casting Mycroft another cruel smile over his shoulder as he gathered up his shoes and socks. "No, I think I'll pass it along to that pretty little assistant of yours. She cares far too much about you, despite not understanding you at all. She'll invariably end up sharing it with Greg just so he can 'understand your ordeal'. It'll be the final nail in the coffin of that sham of a relationship. Dead before it even began. Disgusted with you, he'll turn to Sherlock to understand, and well." Striding across the room, he stopped at the door and cast one final look back at Mycroft, just to see the absolutely broken look he knew awaited him after his final cruel lash of words. "He and Sherlock will make a handsome couple though, won't they? Sad as it may be, I'm sure that your brother will be able to treat him better than you ever could."

"Now be a dear and try not to fret yourself to death before the cavalry arrives, pet." Exiting the room, he stopped once in the threshold, green eyes casting a disdainful look back at his captive. "Oh, and don't think that you can simply come crawling back to me when that DI of yours dumps you like the used bit of trash you are. We're over, Mycroft. You don't have a single thing left that I want. Sadly, you're just not as special as you think you are. So I suppose this is goodbye. For good this time. Do try to stay out of my way from here on out; I won't hesitate to put you down the next time you tread on my endeavors." The sound of the heavy steel door clanking shut behind him gave his words a wonderful finality. Without stopping to put on his shoes, Neil proceeded to the elevator, anxious to get back into his office so he could observe Mycroft's reaction while working on editing and sending the video of their tryst to his recovery team.

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The world tipped along with his stomach as Neil tipped Mycroft off of him and stood, much like a pet owner ridding himself of an unwanted and clingy cat. The laugh that came afterwards told Mycroft that this could only be headed somewhere bad, and he braced himself for some of Neil's usual abuse before the older man grew bored and left him to face the consequences of his actions, which were already making his stomach twist itself into knots. Instead, Mycroft listened as Neil tore his heart apart, the other man clearly savoring every soul-scarring word, every filleted piece of flesh that fell off of Mycroft and left him wanting to gasp for air because surely he couldn't breathe.

Mycroft could handle being called a whore. That didn't bother him much at all--it was downright mild compared to some of the things that Neil had called him in the past--and the pill bottle hitting his chest barely registered in his brain, the blow too soft to matter. But this was just a warm-up for Neil, much, much worse was coming from him and Mycroft couldn't even begin to brace himself for the things he heard next. There was no way of knowing exactly what hell he'd sold himself into by submitting to Neil again.

The camera. He should have remembered the fucking camera. It had been there, of course, his overactive mind registering it and filing it away for later, an itch at the back of his mind that he dismissed and lost in the mindless haze Neil had brought out in him. He'd forgotten about the fucking camera, and now--oh God. Anthea. Sherlock. Greg. Even one of them seeing it would be bad enough, but the thought of the three people closest to him having to watch him come undone-- _willingly_ come undone, he was a goddamn whore, wasn't he?--at the hands of a psychopathic stalker was enough to break his usually careful composure, his mask falling away so Neil could revel in the absolute destruction he'd brought on.

No. No. No no no no no, how could everything have fallen apart so quickly? He'd condemned himself to this fate, really, this entire thing was his fault. He had willingly submitted to Neil, had chosen to sleep with him of his own volition. No, he hadn't known about the cameras, but that didn't matter. They were going to see this video and realize just how weak, how broken the real Mycroft Holmes was underneath his carefully constructed veneer, and Greg was going to feel betrayed and go to Sherlock for comfort and answers and Sherlock was going to be disgusted and disappointed in his older brother, an unimpeachable role model brought to his knees by some pain pills and the promise of a damn good shag to shut his mind off. Anthea would be so dreadfully disappointed in him too, broken again after seeming to be climbing back towards recovery, the progress slow and somewhat painful, but progress nonetheless. All of that was gone now, swept away by Neil's lips and hands and poisonous words. Mycroft had willingly collared himself and handed his leash to Neil again, and it was too late to take it back now.

But Neil didn't even want him anymore. Mycroft could feel the heavy weight of despair settling over his chest with each word the older man spoke, disowning the man who had just so willingly handed himself over. Neil...Neil didn't want him? But that wasn't possible. He'd always had Neil, always been able to count on the man's oppressive stalking like a security blanket. He'd always known that he could return to Neil any time--not without consequences, of course--and turn himself back over if he wanted to. And now Neil was taking even that away from him. Neil had been a failsafe, a last line of defense against the crushing loneliness always teetering on the edge of too much that consumed Mycroft. He could count on Neil, at least, to want him no matter how twisted or broken he was. Neil actually preferred him that way. Now no one, absolutely no one, would want him. He would be left entirely alone, with no one to turn back to and nowhere else to go.

Mycroft had never felt this alone in his life. He had always had someone to rely on in his life, though that person had changed from Sherlock to Neil to Anthea and back a few times, his needs and personality changing along with them. But now, as the steel door snapped shut behind Neil, Mycroft realized that he was, for once, completely and utterly alone. As soon as that video reached Anthea's inbox, he was done. She would see it and send it on to Sherlock and Greg, both for separate reasons having to do with the case. The search for him, who really didn't deserve to be found at this point. Maybe it would have been better for everyone involved if he died two years ago in that accident, or if he'd never left Neil in the first place, or if he'd turned down Greg's invitation for a drink. His rational mind told him that no, that wasn't true, Sherlock could have ended up dead in a ditch somewhere if Mycroft wasn't where he was today, and that thought was at least marginally comforting. That was right, he'd done this to save Sherlock. He was here because of Sherlock, to protect him once again, and that had made the decision worth it. But he hadn't fucked Neil to protect Sherlock, and at the moment that was the only thought that his tired mind could latch onto. His fault. All of this his fault.

Maybe if he begged Neil--no, that was what the other man wanted. Because it was entirely possible and extremely likely that Neil was only distancing himself from Mycroft in an effort to get the other man to crawl back to him and beg him for forgiveness for--for what, exactly? Mycroft hadn't done anything wrong, he'd done the right thing by separating himself from that monster, and he wasn't going to give Neil the satisfaction of begging him to come back. But despite his resolution, he was well aware that physical distance was the only thing preventing him from trying to crawl back into Neil's arms once again. He was, in fact, practically itching to turn to the camera again and plead with Neil to come back, promise him whatever he wanted, and beg for forgiveness.

He'd been sitting on the bed for a few minutes in shock after Neil left, his mind whirring and clicking away like some giant supercomputer trying to process data and produce the most favorable result, and now he needed to move or risk getting crushed under the weight of his own thoughts. He got up slowly and began to pull on his discarded clothing, pants and trousers going back on before he slipped his shoes on again. It was difficult to button his shirt back up one-handed, so he sat back down on the bed for it, struggling over a few of the buttons as he slowly pieced himself back together again. He felt dirty. Completely, filthy dirty, and he didn't even have a way to clean himself in the Spartan accommodations Neil had provided. Somehow, however, he knew that the feeling wouldn't go away even with a scalding hot shower and the opportunity to scrub his skin raw. He felt this way because he was this way. Dirty. Unclean. Just as broken as Neil had always claimed him to be.

When the buttons were finished, he didn't know what to do with himself. Getting dressed had been a distraction, a diversion that had lifted a small amount of the weight from his heavy mind. It was a purpose in and of itself, and now he had nothing else to do but sit and think as he waited for the cavalry to come. This was what Neil had reduced him to, a princess awaiting rescue. Only usually the princesses weren't injured and didn't screw their captors for pain medicine, but this was a particularly twisted fairytale if it was one. Heavy, exhausted, and ready to give up, Mycroft rested his head in his uninjured hand, closing his eyes against the absolute torrent of thoughts currently raining down in his mind. This was it. He was going to drown this time.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neil continues to be a bastard, Mycroft deals with the aftermath of their, Greg and Sherlock are presented with promising and horrifying new evidence, and Anthea does her damndest to keep everything from falling apart.
> 
> Warnings: Eating disorders, blackmail, kidnapping, references to dub/non con, hella angst, suicide attempts, emotional torture, and general dark subject material.

Sliding into his makeshift office, Neil tossed his shoes underneath his desk and flicked both his sizable computer monitors on. After a quick stop to clean up in the bathroom, he hadn't exactly run down the hallway to check the security feed, but it was utterly undeniable that he had hastened his steps some. He hadn’t wanted to miss a single moment of the glorious show Mycroft was undoubtedly going to put on for him. The idea of reviewing and editing their tape held no small amount of appeal either. It was the perfect tool for putting the politician back in his place, which was beneath Neil. Mentally, emotionally, and certainly physically. Emerald eyes sparkled with cruel delight as he watched Mycroft silently, subtly come apart on the screen in front of him.

The auburn haired man sat frozen on the end of the bed, positively paralyzed by the weight of his circumstances. Unwanted by Neil, rescue team coming to take him back home to a place where (if Neil had anything to do with it) his welcome would be less than warm. And to complement any homecoming difficulties the blonde criminal hadn't personally set in motion, Mycroft would undoubtedly make things even worse. If for no reason other than simply by virtue of his own fractured mental state. Convinced that he was unlovable and undesirable, the auburn haired man had the most delightful way of trying to shove the other people in his life away from him to spare them from his perceived shortcomings. And his intellect could make such attempts quite cutting, which only fed back into the self-destructive loop of thoughts and emotions that kept Mycroft isolated. Really, his tendency to project his self-deprecation was one of the better qualities the man had come with built in, but Neil had artfully drawn it out and perfected it over their years to Uni. Mycroft had come with a healthy dose of self hatred and doubt, and Neil Gibson had painstakingly helped him elevate it to an art form.

Still, there were factors to consider. Mycroft's most recent assistant was clever, and had proved to be a formidable barrier to accessing him over the past few years. She had an uncanny ability to assess what the politician needed without needing to be told, and there was a good chance that she'd try to ship Mycroft out of London. Perhaps even out of the UK entirely, like she had after his accident. "Rehab" she had called it; sending Mycroft off to a physical therapy clinic in Sweden. Fortunately, Neil was confident that he had left the politician in a state where moving him would be ill-advisable, at least for the first few days. And a few days was all it would take for Mycroft to finally snap and seek out Neil, desperate for the reassurance that someone wanted him.

Because that was what this was all about, really. Mycroft had left him of his own volition; kidnapping and holding the man just wouldn't do. No, the posh bastard had to come back to Neil on his own, preferably on his hands and knees. Not just to restore the power dynamic between them, but because it would finally be the last piece of surrender that Mycroft had to give. Neil had always pursued him, even in Uni. And though the later stages of their relationship were deliciously tumultuous, Mycroft crawling back to him again and again carried very little meaning. Mostly because the younger man had never managed to actually get away. Stretched his lead, certainly, but he had never actually slipped it until that one day a few years ago when Mycroft finally took a stand and ordered Neil out of his life. In some poetic way, having Mycroft finally give himself over to Neil was the final piece in the elaborate puzzle of their relationship. Abandoning everything he had, his life and career, to fully accept his place at Neil's side. Where he belonged.

Not that the politician had all that much to walk away from, save his brother. Sherlock was always a bit of a wild card, but given the circumstances of the past few days there was a good chance that the younger Holmes would return to some of his less desirable old habits. With so much recent exposure, lacking Mycroft to pull him back from any temptations, he'd likely fall back into drug use like a child would wrap themselves in a security blanket. For a pair that prided themselves on emotional distance, both Mycroft and Sherlock were particularly prone to falling deeply into whatever emotional state they couldn't avoid. Perhaps it was the effect of so stalwartly denying every other feeling that they had. Whatever the cause, the effect could be delicious if managed appropriately. Though Sherlock's isolation and potential downfall was also contingent on Neil's removal of the pesky DI that seemed to follow the Holmes brothers around like some sort of bedraggled, boringly loyal household pet. Still, surprising as it was, Sherlock had a marginal amount of respect for the man. Given that and his own particular brand of stubborn loyalty, Gregory just may be able to keep the younger Holmes from spiraling out of control. Damn.

Neil Gibson was really was getting to hate Greg Lestrade.

It had been tempting enough to take him off the board entirely when he saw the footage of his and Mycroft's kiss at the pub. Still, the knife wound to the gut had taken care of the criminal's frustrations over that. There wasn't a better way to say "hands off, that's mine" than to land a man in a hospital bed, steal his potential partner out from under his nose, fuck said partner senseless, and send back video evidence of their tryst. But as much as Neil enjoyed tormenting Mycroft with the idea of his little crush being more interested in his detective brother, any idiot could see that was plainly untrue. No, for whatever reason Lestrade seemed smitten with the elder Holmes. If receiving the video of Mycroft's liaisons while imprisoned didn't turn him off the idea of pursuing Mycroft, he'd continue to doggedly chase after the man out of some misguided idea that he could make it 'better'.

Something was really going to have to be done about that. And while it proved impossible to get a plant on Mycroft's security team it was almost frightfully easy to get his own operatives into the hospital where they were being kept. Hell, it wouldn't even have to be one of Neil's men. Somewhere there had to be a nurse or a doctor that had loose morals and a need for cash. Setting up a fatal morphine drip would be relatively easy, especially if Neil provided his pawn with the medication instead of relying on them from getting it through the hospital pharmacy. And applied at the right time, it would be very hard to detect. Put in place while the DI was already sleeping, monitored by his pet nurse, it’d result in an easy slide into unconsciousness, followed by death. And should Mycroft’s own pet be hardier than expected, by the time the next shift came on board in it would be too late for them to do much. Especially if Neil's own 'caretaker' could fudge the results of his health checks throughout their shift.

Right. So today's to do list went as followed. One: edit Mycroft's rather damning video, and send it off to his pretty assistant. Two: have a few of his lieutenants research potential bribery targets on the hospital staff, leaving an option for the careful application of threats if a suitable person of loose morals couldn’t be found. Everybody had someone they were willing to kill for, and kidnapping was obviously not off the board. After all, that's what this entire clandestine facility was for. Three: Have an espresso and watch Mycroft Holmes irreparably fall apart.

Keeping one eye half focused on the screen with the current feed of Mycroft's cell, Neil began to hum softly to himself as he started compiling and editing the footage of their tryst. This was turning out to be a better day than he could possibly have expected. The auburn haired man's performance was so genuinely wanton, so perfect in his utter abandonment that it was unlikely Neil would have to do that much editing at all. Mycroft Holmes, ruined by his own hand. Or rather, by his impressive lack of self control and his throaty, desperate moans. Thank goodness for sound. Those cries would really drive home the absolute willingness of the politician's participation in their act. As the video replayed it was difficult not to get lost in the lush imagery of it all, especially when his skin still smelled vaguely of Mycroft. Pity that there'd not be a chance to take the man again before his departure. But letting the politician come apart in isolation was by far the best course of action. Plus, it would really help to drive home the idea that Neil was truly done with him.

Finally, Neil had cut and parceled the best pieces of footage into a largely seamless video of their mutual debauchery. Only a few cuts and edits were necessary, and that was more for brevity's sake than anything else. The video would lose impact if it was too long that it was difficult to watch in its entirety. Fortunately cutting out his cruelty towards his captive had taken care of much of the length. The video spanned from Mycroft's initial admission of "you're right," to his last, shuddering admission that he belonged to Neil and only Neil. Without the battle of wills that served as foreplay between them, the video lasted just over twenty minutes. Perfect. With a sadistic smile he sent the video out not only to Anthea, but to the largely locked phone that he had given Mycroft earlier.

**"Here's a present, pet. Thought you'd enjoy seeing what your team would be seeing. You are quite the performer, Mycroft. I'm sure they'll enjoy it almost as much as I did. Now sit tight. Your operatives will be along in a bit to gather up and cart away my trash. The video seems a fitting memento of our time together; the perfect parting gift. Now, do you have any final words for me before you're collected and trundled off like the burden you are?"**

\---------------------

Normally, Anthea would have ignored the email. The team was officially in crisis mode, as their most important member, their leader, had vanished without a trace and had seemingly helped to erase all evidence of his departure. They were on their highest alert level as soon as the name Neil Gibson crossed Anthea's lips as the man responsible, everyone scrambling in a carefully controlled, urgent panic as they worked to get Mycroft back before he ended up in another car accident, this one fatal. Because as far as everyone else was concerned, that was all that Neil had done to Mycroft; their knowledge of the men's shared history didn't even scratch the surface of what Anthea knew, and Anthea basically knew pittance. So normally, in a situation like this, she would have ignored the email. But it came from the same email address that had sent Mycroft the demands on his mobile, so she had to open it, dread rising like a tidal wave in her stomach when she saw that there was a video attachment.

_Please don't be dead, please don't be dead, please don't be dead..._

Childishly, she crossed the slim, manicured fingers of one hand behind her back as if that could really change the contents of the video as it loaded. If Mycroft was dead, her crossing her fingers like a goddamn little kid behind her wasn't going to change it, and the only purpose it served was to comfort her slightly, make it seem like she had some measure of control over the situation, even if it was minuscule at best, nonexistent at worst. Maybe that was what made her hold her breath as well, just before she pressed play and watched as all of her worst fears were confirmed.

The orders were dispatched with a cold efficiency that would have made Mycroft proud. At least, the Mycroft she knew, not the one who she'd just watched give himself over to a psychopath and fall apart in every way that he could. And yes, she had watched the video the entire way through even as every other member of the team averted their eyes, blushing and trying not to hear the deep moans coming from the man that they had all respected and known as their superior, because she had to know exactly what damage Neil had done to him. Though, this really only showed her what Neil wanted her to see, she knew that. There was obviously a build up to the concession from Mycroft that started the video, and more after his final admission, she was sure, but that didn't change the part she saw. Mycroft had gotten himself wrapped right back around Neil's finger, and seemed content to stay there. God, he was going to be even worse than she'd thought when they got him back, if this was what had happened.

Tech team was given the footage, but even trying to trace it from the original email on Anthea's laptop, they got nowhere. Anthea repressed a heavy sigh and sent off the one order she had left, the one she had been hoping to avoid but knew she had to give anyway; give the laptop to Sherlock Holmes, and ask him to trace the email. Once an agent was dispatched, carrying the laptop with the email open as if it was a ticking bomb or perhaps some toxic waste, she returned to the search effort that they all knew was going nowhere, Mycroft's condition gnawing at the back of her mind. Maybe she could send him to Sweden again, put him in a different country from Neil. Because she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had to make a certain amount of progress very quickly as soon as he got back because otherwise it would be all too easy for him to go back to Neil, permanently this time. If Mycroft didn't testify against Neil, the case against him fell apart and they had nothing to hold him on, meaning his organizations would continue running and Neil was free to go on his merry criminal way. And Mycroft was free to go back to him, and something told Anthea that if Mycroft left now he would never come back. Neil had done something to him beyond the scope of that twenty minute video, and it was going to make fixing Mycroft that much harder.

She bit her lip as she thought, hands on her hips. Maybe, just maybe, she'd get lucky and Neil would resist arrest and get shot. Or maybe she was up a creek without a paddle and Mycroft was merrily swimming to his death away from her. She picked up her mobile, and sent a quick text to Greg.

**Don't be alarmed by the video you and Sherlock are about to see. This is a temporary setback. We can still fix him, Greg. It'll just be harder now. I'm sorry you have to see this.**

\---------------------

Sherlock had reverted to an almost comatose state in the silence afforded to him by Greg's temporary nap, his brain clicking away and turning old facts over and over again as he tried to find something new to use, something that could narrow down the search for his brother and get him back that much quicker. Because sitting in a hospital bed, unable to get out and physically drag his brother back home, was making Sherlock itch in a way that made him want to scratch his skin to pieces. It was like his failure to come up with a solution had turned into insects and all of the insects were burrowing under his skin, their tiny little legs irritating every muscle fiber and nerve until he wanted to pull them out by the antennae--or that could just be the withdrawal making him paranoid, irritated, and definitely itchy.

Either way, he was snapped out of debating what type of insect it most felt like as a rather flustered looking agent from Mycroft's team entered the room, holding an open laptop as if it was going to bite him. Sherlock opened one pale eye to look imperiously at the man, who stammered out an explanation involving 'Miss A's orders', 'top priority', 'security camera trace', 'only possible solution' before he handed over the laptop and positively ran from the room. Greg's laptop had already been discarded at the foot of Sherlock's bed, though Mycroft's mobile was still next to him, so he positioned the new computer across his lap, ebony brow furrowing as he saw that an email was up with a video attachment. Anthea's email, in fact, which was his first sign that something was terribly, terribly wrong. There was no way he was being trusted with this unless they were absolutely desperate.

The second sign was the chime of Greg's mobile from his bed, indicating a text that Sherlock knew was most likely Anthea, though he wasn't sure why Anthea would text Greg aside from if she had news, and this email appeared to be their only news. That meant that either Anthea was texting Greg about something specific about the email, or had something else to discuss with Greg that she hadn't had before she received the email and that she didn't feel the need to discuss with Sherlock. Something personal then, probably something about Mycroft and his state of wellbeing. Well, they were free to worry about that all they liked, Sherlock was only concerned with the email and the video. The email which had obviously come from Neil Gibson as he was the only one likely to be emailing them a security camera feed and it was from the same email address as the last few emails on Mycroft's phone. Torture, maybe, then? Sherlock didn't hesitate before he pressed play, confident that he could stomach whatever horrors lay ahead.

_"You're right."_

His brother half naked on a bed, clearly in the process of or moving towards the goal of having sex with Neil Gibson, who was practically pinning Mycroft to the mattress and was half-naked as well.

_"I'm...yours."_

All of the color drained from Sherlock's face at once, the pale white skin contrasting sharply with the iris bruises on his face in a way that would have been lovely if it didn't look so painful. Oh no. Oh god no, this was a video of Mycroft--with Neil--in that--just--God. No. This was a video of Mycroft willingly giving himself over to Neil, as resigned as his older brother seemed about it. Jesus. Mycroft had willingly had sex with him? No, no, that wasn't right at all. His older brother was stronger than that, more capable of withstanding temptation. Neil must have done something off camera, must have coerced him somehow. If only he could see the conversation that led to this moment, he would understand exactly why Mycroft had given himself over. There had to be a reason. But Sherlock was extremely adept at telling when Mycroft was acting, and this was not one of those times. It would have been too hard to fake his arousal to Neil's actions anyway.

He stopped the video right after Mycroft's confessions. Once Mycroft was done admitting how much he wanted Neil, how much he'd always desired him, in fact, and Neil told him to take what he wanted, Sherlock paused the video before it got any more graphic so he would at least be able to look his brother in the eye when he returned. So, his estimations of Neil Gibson hadn't been far off at all. The bastard was just as manipulative and sadistic as he'd thought. Sherlock sat staring blankly at the frozen screen for a few minutes, trying to wrap his head around this. Well, there was no way Mycroft was going to testify against Neil now. He'd have to go back to the drawing board for ideas if he wanted Neil gone permanently. Murder was looking better and better every second.

\---------------------

A chime. It took Mycroft a minute to register the noise, and then for his overworked mind to figure out what exactly had brought it on, his head lifting from his hand as he directed his gaze to the innocent looking mobile on the nightstand. The one that only Neil had access to, meaning there could only be one thing on that phone, and he didn't want to see it. But he slid over to the phone anyway, on the edge of a bed that still smelled like sex, and picked it up to see what fresh torment Neil had prepared.

He had to admit, the video was artfully done. Long enough to show Mycroft's complete surrender in its entirety, but short enough that the impact was at its peak and the audience wouldn't get lost in meaningless filler. Oh, and then there was the fact that Neil had cut out the entire beginning section so it looked like Mycroft was just willingly giving himself over, though the broken look on his face when he said it on film was enough to tip almost anyone off that they were missing a very important piece of the puzzle. Anthea would know that. Sherlock would know that. Even Greg would know that, though the DI might be so worked up that Sherlock would have to explain it to him calmly. Mycroft hoped his brother could stay rational long enough to do that. If not, Anthea would probably step in.

He considered Neil's message for a moment, wondering what would be the best way to get one last jab in at the man who had stolen so many years of his life and would gleefully steal more if he could. In the end, he decided the best thing would be to say nothing at all; there was nothing Neil hated more than being ignored, especially by Mycroft, who he thought should use all of his considerable amount of attention on Neil. So he put the mobile back down on the nightstand, the message unanswered, and didn't even glance at the security camera. Neil had already had enough from him today, and enough in general to last a lifetime. Mycroft wasn't about to give him anything more than he had to, though he knew that Neil was probably watching his current, meandering breakdown with an intense amount of glee.

It took him ten minutes before he went to the fridge.

If he had had something else to do in the room, anything, even something mindless and boring, he would have been able to hold out longer. Much longer, in fact. But he had nothing to do but sit and stew in his own guilt and self-loathing, and that quickly turned into quick little glances at the fridge, which turned to longer ones when his stomach started growling, which led to him standing in front of it, staring at the door with suspicion and no small amount of trepidation. He wavered somewhere between uncertainty and resolve to turn around, his mind telling him to run while his body quite kindly informed him that he hadn't eaten in quite a long time and surely it would be alright for him to eat, then, for the sake of his own health. As soon as his mind gave a wavering indication that maybe it would be alright to just open the fridge and look, his hand was on the door and he was slowly, slowly pulling it open.

The fridge was empty.

Mycroft reeled back as if struck, this one final insult the blow that was sending his mind reeling. That absolute bastard. He'd baited him, he'd led him on with this, he'd done everything in his power to make sure Mycroft was sitting there and stewing and sweating and panicking only to reveal that he had done it for absolutely no goddamn reason. There was nothing in the fridge. Nothing at all, and Mycroft had worried himself sick and beaten himself down further over absolutely nothing. He recalled with a hint of bitterness that part of the reason he had even called Neil in to talk was because he couldn't stand looking at that fridge anymore. If he had just given in, if he had just opened it--but his self control hadn't let him. And instead he had fucked Neil for a few painkillers and a half an hour of quiet in his mind.

Something broke inside of Mycroft then, some part of him that had been holding out against this ceaseless assault Neil was running. He could see tears blurring his vision, a wave of hopelessness and despair washing over him that he couldn't even muster the strength to resist anymore. How had he managed to fuck up this badly in the space of two days? Somehow, he'd managed to basically ruin the lives of two other people because of his own stupidity. Sherlock had tasted narcotics for the first time in months and was likely to fall back into it again even with Mycroft's intervention. Greg was going to be heartbroken and utterly wrecked, most likely blaming himself for what had happened if he didn't hate Mycroft for it, which he might. And Mycroft had let both of them down, and let a monster back into his bed and head. A monster that didn't even want him anymore. If he wasn't good enough for Neil, who the fuck did he deserve?

His steps back to the bed were heavy and slow, but he was only going to retrieve the bottle of painkillers, placing it on the table in the room and sitting in one of the available chairs. There was no way he was going near that bed again, it smelled too much of sex and desperation and the last thing he needed was to be reminded of exactly how badly he'd failed. He almost didn't want rescue to come at this point, because it would mean having to face Anthea and her gentle but disapproving looks and soft attempts at sympathy. Facing Greg was out of the question if he saw the video. And it would be hard for him to look at his brother and try to lead him on the right path when Sherlock had seen proof that his older brother was just as much a junkie as he was, and a weaker willed one at that.

Though several tears threatened to fall, none succeeded, as Mycroft still had enough of himself to pull together that he could stem the flow. He hadn't cried in years, now was not the time to start. He blinked a few times to clear his eyes and his gaze rested on the pill bottle on the table. Painkillers. Why Neil had actually trusted him with a full bottle of painkillers was beyond him. It would be all too easy for him to uncap that bottle and swallow every last pill in it, come what may. It probably wouldn't kill him, if responded to quickly enough. Then again, would Neil care enough to save him before his team arrived? He'd probably keep him alive just out of spite, come to think of it.

A small, bitter smile crossed Mycroft's lips at this thought. Or maybe Neil's possessiveness would do him in. If Mycroft needed permission to come, did that also mean he needed permission to die? Well, there was only one way to find out, and that way would make him lovely and numb... With shaking fingers, Mycroft reached out and uncapped the bottle.

\---------------------

Greg felt the first stirrings of consciousness as his hazy, still-medicated brain registered the sound of someone else in the room. Their slightly nervous, higher pitched voice contrasted with Sherlock's deeper baritone. He was just barely aware of the second party leaving the room, still struggling to claw his way back to awareness. His side ached, and he was so tired that he almost felt dizzy. Lestrade doubted he had ever felt so exhausted in his entire life. It was so tempting to just give in completely to the soft, sinking sensation that kept threatening to pull him back under.

Fortunately his mobile chimed an alert before he could fully fall back asleep. It was the incentive he needed to push through the fog, and he grudgingly cracked one eye and fumbled about on the bed until he found it. A sweep of his thumb to unlock the screen revealed that it was from Anthea. _Please be good news, please say you have him and he's safe and you're only texting me because you're with the recovery team._ The DI knew it was a futile hope; if Mycroft had indeed been found Sherlock would either be complaining incessantly because his brother's team had beaten him to discovering his location, or he'd be crowing in that particularly self-satisfied manner of his about how brilliantly he had figured out where Mycroft was being held. Instead, Sherlock was dead silent. He wasn't sleeping; Greg had heard him talking with someone just moments before. Greg knew it was inadvisable to try and converse with the lanky detective before he had all the information that was available. As much as he didn't want to, for suspicion of bad news, it looked like he was going to have to read the message. He stared at the screen for at least a full minute before opening it, and silvery brows knitted over concerned brown eyes as he read and reread the words Anthea had sent over. A sort of nauseous, almost seasick feeling moved into the pit of his stomach and set up what felt like permanent lodgings.

' _ **We can still fix him, Greg.'**_ Lestrade found that he was more than a bit afraid to contemplate what that sentence meant. What had been done to Mycroft? And what video was Anthea talking about? There were no additional messages, no attachments to go with the text. Oh. Right. Someone had been in the room, it was what had woken him up the first place. They must have brought something with them, given it to Sherlock. Finally mustering enough energy to move, the DI used the handrails on either side of his bed to pull himself into a sitting position. The tight pull in his abdomen accompanied by the dull stabbing sensation following the movement reminded him that that there was a set of buttons he could have used to accomplish the same results without putting as much strain on his wounded midsection. Well, there was always next time.

With a bit of a grimace, he angled himself so he could see the bed next to him, which contained both Sherlock and a new laptop that Greg didn't recognize. It wasn't either his or Sherlock's, so it must have come from Anthea's team. Or the surly, raven haired man had managed to berate one of the hospital staff into turning theirs over, but that seemed both unlikely and unnecessary. As for Sherlock himself; had he gone even paler than usual? It was hard to tell between the younger man's normal pallor and the smattering of blueish bruises but the bits of ivory skin that did peek through seemed almost translucent. If Greg's concern for Mycroft was a river in danger of overflowing, the look of horror and panic on Sherlock's face was the stream that fed its dams to breaking. There was some sort of background noise in the room, and it took a few seconds for Gregory to realized that of course they were coming from the laptop. God, whatever they had him on was making him really loopy. Mustering a bit of focus, he finally made out the the breathy, unmistakable noises emanating from the laptop's speakers.

_Fuck, fuck fuck_ _ **fuck**_ _._ What could possibly be happening? Was that a torture video? No, that didn't sound like torture, that was... something else. Something that two very distinctly different voices were enjoying a great deal. Was Sherlock watching porn? On someone else's laptop? Unlikely, he probably wouldn't be horrified by something as simple as porn... would he? No, that was ridiculous. It **had** to have something to do with the case. Anthea's previous warnings about Mycroft's complicated relationship with Neil Gibson skittered across the back of his mind, but he vehemently ignored them as soon as they surfaced. Even with the idea shut out completely, Lestrade still felt like he swallowed an entire iceberg; the cold feeling in his stomach heavy and almost painful. Both unable and unwilling to leap to a conclusion himself, the DI turned pleading brown eyes to the younger Holmes.

"Sherlock." Greg was surprised how raspy his voice sounded. Was that fear, or thirst? Probably both. He winced as positively shell-shocked silvery green eyes raised from the laptop screen to meet his own. Anything that could stun Sherlock like that had to be just awful. Without being entirely sure that he wanted the answer, Greg finally managed to choke out the question. "What in god's name is going on?"

\---------------------

Neil let out a disappointed sigh as Mycroft finished the video and calmly sat his phone back on the bedside table. No shocked gasps, no frustrated cries; nothing. He didn't fling the phone across the room or even respond to Neil's text. All in all, the auburn haired man's reaction to the video was stunningly mediocre. Neil hadn't been expecting much in the way of a reply; it was still too soon in the game for Mycroft to be begging him to come back. Still, some type of response would have been nice. A barb, and insult, something. Frustrated, Neil rolled his eyes and laced his hands together, cracking his strong tanned fingers before lacing them under his chin to support his head as he continued to scrutinize the live feed from his captive's room.

So, Mycroft was going to play it withdrawn, then. Well, it wasn't entirely unexpected. As talented as Neil was at drawing out every insecurity and reopening all Mycroft's old scars, it appeared that the political world had hardened the man's already granite-like countenance. Only someone who knew Mycroft very well would have been able to pick out the vastly subtle tells of his mental collapse. The jerky, mechanical motions that he used to dress himself, the very pointed way he avoided looking at the security camera at all, the flickering glances at the Pandora's box that was the fridge at the end of his bed. Though subtle, each individual motion, each frozen pocket of absolute stillness in Mycroft's frame filled Neil with an immense wave of satisfaction. It was difficult for the criminal to stay where he was, merely observing instead of participating. The first taste of Mycroft after a few years of being completely deprived had whet the blonde's already considerable appetite for the other man. It was hard not to just storm back into the room and twist Mycroft around, physically, mentally, emotionally; it didn't really matter to Neil so long as it made the politician writhe and hurt. Hell, if it was possible he'd sink his fingers into the other man's soul and yank away pieces until he was satisfied.

For now, he simply had to content himself with the video feed. Mycroft needed to be alone; nobody could berate, flay, insult, or otherwise match the cruelty that Mycroft Holmes could heap on himself when one of his moods set in. The way the politician's uninjured shoulder rounded forwards slightly as if trying to huddle away from something unpleasant in the room was betrayed by the way that every few seconds his head would tilt slightly towards the fridge. And ah yes, there it was. The flickering glances grew into a stare, and suddenly Mycroft was off his seat and standing before the giant white and chrome monstrosity, frozen like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Finally, one long fingered hand wrapped around the handle and tentatively yanked. The door gave a slight rattle as it opened that matched Mycroft's full body shudder as he inspected the empty interior. Neil let out a cold, cutting laugh at the way Mycroft's frame sagged with the weight of his discovery. That really had been one of his better plans when it came to fucking with Mycroft's head. All the angst and worry with absolutely none of the reward for finally caving and giving in. It was _ **beautiful**_.

When Mycroft continued to stare at the fridge's contents, or rather lack thereof, Neil cursed the lack of detail the security camera provided. The man's full body stagger was obvious and very satisfying, but he wanted to see every downward twitch of those soft lips, the tightening around his blue-grey eyes. He wanted to drown in every little, subtle detail that was Mycroft Holmes completely falling apart. Though he couldn’t see the minutia of his expressions, the obvious combination of pain, shock, disappointment, and anger twisted the politician's normally refined face into somewhat of a grimace. He stood frozen to the spot for a good few minutes; breaths coming in short, ragged spurts before Mycroft visibly got control of himself once again. All Neil could do in response was give a delighted smile. This was all just too, too amazing. The amount of ammunition that the auburn haired man would be taking back with him once he was rescued would be all the posh bastard needed to completely finish the process that Neil had started. Mycroft Holmes would emotionally flay himself until there was absolutely nothing left for him to do but come back to Neil for comfort.

As Mycroft walked across the room, the way that politician gingerly avoided the bed was almost charming. That particular sentiment was certainly going to make getting any kind of sleep difficult on him, especially with that shoulder of his. Instead of being seated on the much more comfortable if slightly used mattress, the politician's leaden footfalls led him back to the small dining table. He carefully sat the bottle in the exact middle, and simply stared at it for a few seconds. Neil watched on in satisfied silence as Mycroft contemplated his 'payment'. Undoubtedly the man was mentally lashing himself, thinking about the pills as the relatively cheap price of his dignity. Shakily, he opened the bottle. Neil narrowed his eyes a bit, almost disappointed in Mycroft's choice of actions.

_How dull. Take a few pills and just try to sleep until your cavalry arrives? I thought better of you Mycroft. Much better._ He'd have to be sure to express his displeasure to his captive once the opportunity arose. But instead of just taking a tablet or two out of the bottle, Mycroft upended the damn thing, tipping the entire contents into one trembling hand. Several pills went into Mycroft's mouth to be swallowed, and Neil watched with growing concern and he repeated the gesture again. Mycroft's actions were so completely unexpected that it wasn't until the third handful passed through his lips that the seriousness of the situation hit his captor. There was one meager handful left, and Neil didn't bother waiting to see if Mycroft would take those too before he jumped into action.

"Fucking hell," he growled as he jumped up out of his chair and stalked quickly over to the door, which he wrenched open. His bodyguard jumped somewhat, utterly surprised by his boss's sudden appearance. "Fucking Mycroft just took the entire goddamn bottle of painkillers." When the man simply looked at him in shock, Neil shoved him with a snarl. "For chrissakes, get your ass down there and DO SOMETHING about it!"

"The hell am _ **I**_ supposed to do about it?" His bodyguard looked equal parts confused and frightened. He was a relatively young fellow, in his late twenties if Neil had to hazard a guess. Hadn't been with the organization long, but probably heard rumors about Neil's temper. Good. Frightened people obeyed orders with frightening efficiency, when properly motivated. Neil stepped directly into the younger man's personal space, glaring emerald daggers down at him as he barked out his response.

"You get in there, and you make him vomit. I don't fucking care if you have to shove your fingers down his throat. Just get it done! Go. **NOW**!" As the suited man stepped around him and disappeared down the long hallway, Neil shouted after him. "If he dies, you die! You hear me? YOU **DIE**. So don't fuck up!"

\---------------------

It was an effort to drag his eyes away from the frozen image of his brother and Neil on the screen, but Sherlock's eyes managed to find their way to Greg's, an intense amount of concern and confusion in the DI's chestnut eyes as he demanded to know what was going on. To be honest, Sherlock had entirely forgotten about the other man, too wrapped up in his own thoughts and the images now affixed in his head by the video in front of him to remember the older man next to him. Greg didn't know about the video. He knew something was going on, no doubt from Sherlock's behavior and the noises that had been coming from the laptop, but he didn't know what, exactly, that something was.

His gaze went back to the computer screen, his head tilting back slightly to accommodate his steepled fingers underneath his chin. "Surveillance video," his low baritone rumbled out, emotionless. "High quality, expensive camera, clear details. Taken recently, but edited down to twenty minutes designed for maximum impact. Sent as a taunt to Anthea's team, and for me, I'm assuming. Well-encrypted, but given a little time I could--" He broke off abruptly, fingers slipping apart again so he could return them to the keyboard, typing rapidly.

He paused after a minute, remembering that Greg was still there and still waiting for an answer beyond the incomplete one Sherlock had started to give him. "It was sent from the same address Neil Gibson used to contact Mycroft earlier on his mobile, and no one else could have sent it anyway judging by its content. Unless Mycroft sent it, but that wouldn't make any sense and Neil wouldn't give him access to a computer, far too risky. So Neil sent it to us. Why? To taunt, of course, and to gloat about the fact that we couldn't find Mycroft before anything happened." A hint of bitterness was creeping into his tone, a touch of anger at the arrogance of the other man and the actions he'd taken. Whatever had happened, he'd somehow convinced Mycroft to sleep with him, lured him in somehow, and that was unacceptable. His brother was not some toy to be used and abused as Neil pleased, he was a grown man and a role model for Sherlock since Sherlock had been born. The whole thing made Sherlock want to rip Neil apart, preferably with his teeth, just so Mycroft could go back to normal. During his initial relationship with Neil, Mycroft hadn't been Mycroft. He hadn't been his usual, suffocatingly concerned self, hovering over Sherlock constantly, and as much as Sherlock had hated his brother's concern before, he hated it more when Mycroft withdrew into that awful apathy that Neil seemed to bring out in him. Better that Mycroft care too much about Sherlock than not care about anything at all.

"Here." He put the film back at the beginning and turned the laptop so Greg could see it, one slim finger tapping the spacebar to play it before his hand pulled away and he returned to staring at the wall, his ears shut against the noises and breathy dialogue coming from the laptop. He let it play out, keeping enough of his attention active to notice if Greg told him to stop the video while the rest of his mind started working through possibilities, the best ways to track where the video came from. The video itself hadn't given him a lot of information to go on, the shot focused on the bed in the room, but the rest of the room was visible as well and it had been mostly empty.

Gray walls. Sparse furniture, obviously picked up for the express purpose of outfitting the room on short notice. A table and two chairs, a giant fridge--that was an odd detail, wasn't it, and Sherlock filed it away for later consideration--a bedside table and the bed itself. The door was heavy and probably had multiple locks on the outside, had probably come with the building but was upgraded with extra security to make sure Mycroft was pinned down in the room like a butterfly pinned in a collector's box. Certainly that was how he was pinned to the bed in the video--Sherlock clamped down on that thought before it could go any further, a small amount of bile rising in his throat as his mind chose that instant to make him aware of the noise coming from the computer again. Yes, murder was looking like a much better option for disposing of Neil Gibson. Bastard.

Back to the room. The walls and door seemed to indicate that it was a warehouse of some kind, an empty space with plenty of rooms that could be repurposed for holding important prisoners like Mycroft. Though it was likely that Neil had used that space or spaces like it to hold human trafficking victims before, as it would be an ideal venue. Heavy doors that could keep them locked in, an anonymous enough space that any description of it would be unhelpful, disposable furniture that could easily be set up and then dismantled again, security cameras in the corners--Sherlock froze, teal eyes snapping wide as he came to a sudden, unbelievable conclusion. Of course. Of fucking course. He knew exactly where Mycroft was, he should have known from the very beginning.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid..." he muttered, a scowl darkening his features. He picked up his mobile, quickly texting Anthea an address, the address he knew Mycroft had to be at. As part of his investigation, he'd managed to interview one of the human trafficking victims who had gotten out of it, a young woman named Natalie or Natalia or something unimportant who had little information to give about the members of the organization. She'd gone on and on about where they were held, though, Greg--present because this was a Yard affair--smiling sympathetically and nodding on as if this was the most important thing in the world while Sherlock practically seethed with impatience because they were clearly wasting time interviewing this girl, she had nothing to offer. Her description had been thorough, though, gray walls and a heavy steel door, a sparsely furnished room that she was held in for long periods of time. It had been smaller than Mycroft's and only held a bed, but Sherlock had managed to use the description to track down a warehouse in Brixton, hoping it might still hold a few unsavory things. But it turned out Neil was too clever for that, as he'd already moved on to another warehouse, another set of victims, another business deal.

True, the warehouse Na-something had been held in could have been a different one from the one Mycroft was in but that camera placement was what did it in. One camera in the exact same corner the woman said it had been in, with the same view of a very similar room with the same type of door? No, that narrowed down his possibilities for Mycroft's holding cell considerably, and the warehouse N-whatever her name was was still on that list. So, most logically, Mycroft would be there, and Sherlock told Anthea as much, telling her in his message that it was of the highest priority to check this warehouse first. That had to be it, that just had to be! How could he have been so stupid as to completely dismiss that possibility just because Neil had used it before? Of course, that was probably what Neil had counted on, thinking it would be overlooked because who would be stupid enough to hold people in the same place twice? But it was actually extremely, dangerously clever, and Sherlock had to appreciate the skill of it for a moment. It had been good enough to fool him, at least for long enough that Neil could have his tryst with Mycroft and cause his damage, and therefore it was clever.

True, they wouldn't know if Sherlock was right until they actually stormed the place, but he could feel the deep sense of self-satisfaction settling over him that usually followed the conclusion of a case. He could feel it down to his very bones that this was right, that that was where his brother was being held. If he had been more sentimental, perhaps he would have attributed the sensation to some sort of connection with his sibling that let him know where Mycroft was, but he knew that was nonsense. Just like he knew that the sense of comfort he gained from knowing where Mycroft was was due to satisfaction at having solved the puzzle, not at any concern for his brother. No, that couldn't be it.

\---------------------

Mycroft was acutely aware of how much time he had before the drugs kicked in according to the effects he'd experienced earlier, when Neil had indulged him and given him them before they became...involved again. So he knew that it would take a few minutes, even though he'd basically downed the entire bottle in almost one go. It had only taken him several mouthfuls to finish the bottle off because dry swallowing that many pills was exceedingly difficult and his throat still burned a little from the effort. A few minutes, then, in which to make sure this was one injury he wasn't going to come back from.

He didn't know, honestly, if Neil was sending anyone his way--it was doubtful the man would come himself unless he thought he could control Mycroft just by talking him into vomiting them up, as inducing vomiting in himself was something Mycroft excelled at--but he didn't want to take the chance that he was going to be interrupted before the drugs even had enough time to process through his system. So, somehow he had to make sure they couldn't get into the room to him, at least not for a little while. Blockading the door was the most obvious answer, but there was little available to block it with. All of the furniture was either too flimsy to provide much of a barrier, or too heavy for him to move with one arm. The massive fridge would be ideal, but there was no way he could move that with one arm in a sling and exhaustion on the verge of overtaking him. He settled for an old trick that he knew would only cause a short delay, dragging over one of the chairs and propping it under the door handle. One of Neil's solidly built staff members could no doubt force the door and knock the chair down, but judging from how thick the door was and the amount of weight it had, it would take them at least a minute or two, and that was all the time Mycroft needed.

He took the time as he crossed to the nightstand to smile at the video camera, just a short little flash that was bound to make Neil seethe with rage. _Yes, that's right, you can't have me if I'm dead, Neil._ And this way, he wouldn't have to face Anthea, Sherlock, or Greg ever again. He'd almost be a martyr, in a sense, having sacrificed himself to save his brother and then dying to protect everyone else. Because the only way he could avoid hurting anyone was if he died. Alive, he caused damage and pain wherever he went, cutting people with the sharp ice around his heart-- _or where your heart should be_ , his head helpfully supplied--and drawing blood. Causing more harm than good. It was true with Sherlock, and it was true with Greg. This whole mess could have been avoided if he'd chosen this option much earlier, but he supposed it wasn't too late now. No one had died because of him, so he still had time to rectify his mistakes. Save everyone their fair share of pain at his hands.

A lovely kind of numbness was seeping into the edge of his senses, taking away the slight edge of pain lingering from his shoulder. Taking away any kind of pain, actually, before it began to take away any kind of sensation altogether, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. He felt tired and heavy, like his limbs were weighted down with lead, and he realized distantly that he was actually stumbling slightly before his hand was on the nightstand to steady himself. He pulled his narrowing focus together to pick up the mobile, typing out two words to Neil: **I win.**

The message sent, the phone slipped out of his fingers and clattered against the bedside table, even the noise of the impact sounding distant to Mycroft's ears. A kind of buzzing was in them, a low hum similar to white noise that was soothing the remnants of his senses as his body registered what was happening and some part of it panicked slightly. His hand almost rose to his mouth, prepared to reach for the back of his throat and undo the damage done, but he forced it back down again and stepped back from the nightstand, swaying slightly on his feet. No, he was going to see this thing through to the end, ensure that he couldn't fall into Neil's traps again. Distantly, he was aware of a pounding that he thought was his own heart, but sounded suspiciously like fists on steel, but that was the last sound that registered before darkness covered his vision, creeping in rather than overtaking him suddenly. He wasn't even aware of falling to the floor. There was just nothing anymore.

\---------------------

Sherlock's intense blue green eyes stared at Greg as if he had been deposited in the hospital bed next to him by aliens. He looked over the DI with a oddly fragile expression on his face. His pallor and bruises only seemed to heighten the stress that lined his eyes and mouth, drawing both tight. The expression lasted only a minute before the calm porcelain mask was back in place, but Greg had seen what was underneath. And if Sherlock was that frightened, that worried for his brother... well... whatever this 'video' Anthea referenced had to be something truly terrible.

Almost immediately Sherlock took refuge in his deductions, spouting off details about the video itself; listing off quality and length as if those were as important at the bloody content! Then, he seamlessly transitioned into debating options for tracking down the source. Abruptly, the raven haired young man stopped talking altogether and began furiously typing away. The only sound in the room was the rush of Greg's pulse in his ears and the repetitive clacking of Sherlock's fingers on the keys.

Fifteen minutes passed without Sherlock moving or speaking again. Greg gave a weary sigh, to try and remind the other man that he was still in the room and still deserved some sort of clarification as to what was going on with this damned video everyone was up in arms about. Still, if Sherlock was working that feverishly on something it had to do with Mycroft's kidnapping, and Greg was hesitant to interrupt. He sat in silence broken only by the frantic sounds of typing, gazing at his mobile silently willing it to ring with news of Mycroft's successful retrieval.

Another twenty minutes passed without Sherlock acknowledging him before Lestrade finally lost his temper. If the infuriating detective really was working on something related to his brother's disappearance then he should by rights tell Greg! After all, two minds working together on the problem had to be better than one, even if Sherlock would be the brain trust of their partnership.

Without any warning Sherlock began speaking again, telling Greg that the video had been sent by Neil. Well, that at least was unsurprising. Any other source would have been very unlikely. As the detective went over Neil's possible motivations, his voice dropped even further from its already low register. There was a bitter and malicious edge to his words that sent a chill running down Greg's spine. The ever present self confidence was there was well, though, so that was a good sign. At least one thing in this whole fucked up situation was normal.

"Here," the younger man offered, turning the laptop around so that Greg had full view of the screen. Once the video began to play, it took Lestrade's still somewhat foggy brain almost a full minute to register what exactly it was that he was seeing.

Mycroft. It had to be Mycroft. But he'd never seen the man with his shirtsleeves rolled up before tonight, let alone in the state of undress that he appeared in the video. It was hypnotic, if only for the complete unexpectedness of it. Atop Mycroft was a man Greg didn't recognize; just barely larger than Mycroft. His hair was largely blond, though it was peppered with streaks of silver. Neil. It couldn't be anyone else. A flicker of anger stirred within him, but it was immediately tamped down by the sight of Mycroft arching up and kissing his way along Neil's neck. Every drop of blood in Greg's veins froze. His breathing stopped, and he was certain that he wasn't even blinking. The DI found himself unable to look away, glued to the scene unfolding in front of him in some sort of paralyzed horror.

This was the worst case scenario that Anthea had warned him about. Though there could be any number of mitigating factors (someone off screen with a gun, perhaps, or another round of threats to Mycroft's friends and family), it at least appeared that Mycroft was not only giving himself over to Gibson but pursuing relations with him. Actively participating, even. The laptop was too far away for Greg to make out any actual words being spoken, but the tone of Mycroft's voice said enough. He sounded tired, which was unsurprising given the wound he had taken and the rest that he had been denied since this whole psychotic whirlwind of events began.

When Neil withdrew and reclined against the headboard, and Mycroft's indistinct words took on a definite sultry purr, Greg's brain finally kicked back into motion. Unfortunately his voice was still frozen in his throat, and he watched in mute horror as the politician stripped his captor of trousers and pants. His words tore themselves free as Mycroft started to kiss a line up the inside of Neil's thigh; ripping past the tightness in his throat to echo off every sterile, barren surface in the hospital room.

“Jesus," he intoned, voice stuck somewhere between awe and horror. "Turn it off, Sherlock." The younger detective seemed to be busy with his phone, frantically typing away. Typical. But he couldn't watch another second. He tried to focus on Sherlock, but his eyes kept skittering over to catch brief glimpses of the footage that was still playing. On the video, Mycroft bared his throat willingly to Neil, who took to the invitation with no small amount of gusto. Something sick coiled and twisted in Greg's abdomen at the keening noise that Mycroft made as that damnable bastard worked over the pale length of his neck.

"Goddamnit Sherlock! Turn that fucking thing off!" Without meaning to Greg barked the words out at the younger Holmes with a surprising amount of force. Sherlock looked up from his mobile, startled. One large, long fingered hand clapped down on the laptop screen to force it closed.

Wordlessly, Greg sank back into his hospital bed. Sitting was too difficult to bother with. Hell, at this point being alive felt almost too difficult to bother with. He closed his eyes, and felt the familiar burn of tears stinging at the corners. Good fucking god. What was wrong with him? It's not like he and Mycroft had done anything other than have one rather unsuccessful date. Greg knew he had absolutely no claim on the man beyond that of friendship, and prior to their time at the pub Greg would have categorized them as 'friendly professionals' rather than friends.

So why did his eyes sting so badly? Why were there tears welling up behind the lids? It was preposterous. He didn't cry the day that he signed his divorce papers. He certainly didn't shed a tear when he and Janice had finally decided to get separated. But here he was, Gregory fucking Lestrade, a 44 year old Detective Inspector for NSY, having his eyes water because some bloke he had a bit of a crush on was kissing (well, more than kissing) someone else.

But he knew he wasn't tearing up because he felt badly for himself, though he certainly did feel awful. The stronger of the two aches in his heart was reserved for Mycroft. No matter how willing he looked in the video, there was obviously something wrong. Neil had broken him somehow, threatened him, tortured him... something. Something to get Mycroft to behave that way. And even if he didn't? Lord. How many times had Lestrade had sex with Janice while they were separated? More than he cared to count, and each time made him hate himself a little bit more. And for all her faults, at least she had never tried to hit him with a car, or kidnap him or his family.

It was break up sex. Or make up sex. In a way, it was almost understandable. Completely human. The only reason the idea itself was shocking was because it was Mycroft, who seemed just a little bit above 'completely human'. Knowing what the poor man must be going through, must be thinking about himself made Greg's heart plummet deeper than it had all evening. He wasn't tearing up because he was jealous (though he certainly was) but because he could see how shattered Mycroft truly was, and it completely and totally broke his heart. The DI thought about texting Anthea to make a plan, figure out what could be done to help Mycroft understand that he wasn't at fault in any of this, but set his phone aside with a message half composed. Talking with Sherlock first would help clear his head, maybe give him something positive to focus on. **Then** he could confer with Anthea on caring for Mycroft's mental state.

"Sherlock?" He managed to rasp the name out, voice shaky and weak. If the detective noticed his fragile mental state he at least had the decency to keep silent about it for the moment. "Is there any good news at all? Anything?" He knew he sounded pleading, but he couldn't help it. Any bit of even remotely good news was needed for Lestrade to keep himself afloat.

\---------------------

Neil watched in a detached yet fascinated state as Mycroft's hand went limp and his mobile clattered to the floor. A few seconds later, his own mobile chimed with an incoming message. It was hard to tear his eyes away from the screen, but the message was obviously from Mycroft. He had to know what it said.

"I win." The only response Neil had to that was to shove his computer and monitor set up off the desk, the crashing sounds they made when they hit the floor offering him the briefest of temporary respites. Fuck. Wait. Now how was he supposed to watch what was going on? Cursing a litany of filth underneath his breath, Neil tugged on his socks and shoes and stormed out of his office.

When he arrived at the outside of Mycroft's cell, the number of bodyguards had tripled. At least the young man he spoke to first had enough sense to radio in his fellows on the way down. Currently, all three of them were taking turns pounding on the thick steel door, trying to force it open. What they had in brawn they certainly lacked in brains, because not a damned one of them had managed to make any sort of progress.

"You fucking idiots!" Neil snarled, a strange sort of panic rising in his chest. Certainly not for Mycroft. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But their game wasn't done. Not by a long shot. Mycroft didn't just get to take himself off the board because he didn't want to play anymore! No, he wasn't done until Neil allowed him to be done. And things were **far** from finished.

"Work the frame or the handle itself, not the middle of the goddamn door. Simple physics! USE IT." Finally the door burst open and all three bodyguards rushed inside. Neil hovered in the doorway, uncertain about what to do for perhaps the first time in his adult life. He decided to stay back and out of the way. Besides, all he wanted to do was repeatedly slap Mycroft, and that wouldn't exactly be helpful.

The largest of the three managed to roll Mycroft onto his side and force his head over the end of the bed. There was a short scuffle about who would be responsible for shoving their fingers down the politician's throat, but Neil cut it off abruptly with the mere snap of his fingers. The one he had spoken to earlier remembered the threat on his life, and almost immediately opened Mycroft's jaw and stuck his fingers in. It took the lad three tries to have success, but when he did the look of relief on his face was nearly enough to make Neil chuckle.

"Don't get too excited, sport. He's not fully alive yet. Now do it again. Hell, make that twice more. Get as much of it out as you can." His voice was cold with fury, which made the youngest bodyguard jump into action again. After a few more purges, Neil gave a satisfied nod. "That should do it, at least for now.What sort of condition is he in?"

"His skin is clammy, his breathing is shallow, and I'm certainly no doctor but his pupils are the size of pinpricks. I think he's really sick. We need a doctor, or a nurse, or **something**." The largest bodyguard supplied the information, being the closest to Mycroft.

Immediately, Neil pulled out his phone and made a quick call. Being in the human trafficking business, he did have a doctor on staff; someone to tend to the inventory when they had been used badly enough that they required attention but not beaten so badly that they were unusable as a commodity. He went through two of three staff physicians before he found someone who could be there within fifteen minutes. During that time he paced the floor of Mycroft's room, completely ignoring both the unconscious man and the three nameless bodyguards who were obviously afraid of incurring Neil's wrath should they draw attention to themselves by attempting to leave.

When the doctor arrived it was someone that Neil had not met before. She didn't bother with introductions, or any niceties at all. She just marched her slight frame right up to the edge of the bed where Mycroft lay and ordered all three of the bodyguards to move. A quick once over with her stethoscope and pen light confirmed what had already been suspected. Her voice was clipped and efficient as she relayed to Neil that Mycroft had moved into a state of toxic shock, or overdose.

"Well, fortunately he's not blue around the lips or fingernails, so the acetaminophen hasn't thinned his blood too badly, yet. Still, we're fairly early in. It's good that you got what you could out of his system but there's no guarantee you got it all, or any information on how much was already absorbed." The doctor gave Neil a curious glance, obviously expecting some sort of reaction from him, and looked a bit confused when she got none. The blonde simply nodded, and the petite doctor continued with her assessment.

"At this point, it's a wait and see scenario. I can't do any of the procedures that would be necessary to flush out his stomach. The best I can do is get him some activated charcoal and an IV bag of fluids. Other than that, you need to keep someone that knows CPR with him at all times in case his breathing stops. And pray that whoever is supposed to show up and take him back to the hospital comes soon." With that she rose from the bed, gave Neil a measured glance, and started to exit the room. At the threshold, she turned around to give the blonde criminal and his rather stunned bodyguards another round of advice.

"Keep an eye on his wound; I'm worried that it may start bleeding again with the amount of blood thinners in his system. And for god's sake, be gentle. His body won't be able to clot very well so any bruises you give him are going to be serious and add another complication to his condition."

"And finally? Leave some sort of note on him that lets the ER team know what he's taken. There are counter-medications to both the acetaminophen and narcotic component, but he needs to receive them soon or he risks permanent liver damage.

“The good news is that you caught it early, so there's much less of a chance that he'll die of toxic shock because his liver has already shut down. Still, if he doesn't get those medications in about 4 hours, there could be some serious, even fatal, damage to his system." And with that she turned and strode out, heels clacking down the concrete hallway.

With a wave of his hand he dismissed the bodyguards from the room, waiting for them to clatter down the hallway as well before pulling the remaining chair up to Mycroft's bedside. He lowered his face down so that they were nearly nose to nose. The auburn haired man didn't even twitch in response.

"Well, pet, you better pray that your brother is twice as clever as you think he is, or you're in for a rather protracted, painful death. Which I will do everything in my power to make even worse. You wanted to die asleep? Too bad. I'll get the final word no matter what. I'll make sure you die _**screaming**_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little ray of sunshine at the end of a rather dark chapter: As next week Christmas, I have plans to publish the next chapter on Christmas Eve. So there will be slightly less of a wait for the next installment! Yeah, sorry, that's all we've got. It's not much, but hopefully it'll do. Love you all and hope you have wonderful holidays!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a bonus chapter as a little holiday gift, a token of appreciation for sticking with us through all the angst. Happy Holidays, y'all! 
> 
> A chapter in which Sherlock makes progress in his brother's case, Greg makes an important decision, and Anthea continues to be the glue holding the seams of the entire operation together.
> 
> Warnings for: Suicide / attempted suicide, references to dub / non-con, Eating disorders, blackmail, kidnapping, extreme angst, emotional torture, and general dark subject material.

Sherlock was startled out of his reverie by Greg's snapped order, the tone rather than the words themselves making him alert again, snapping shut the lid of the laptop with a decisive click to turn the video off. The DI sank back onto his bed and Sherlock raked his gaze over him, sifting for signs of what had produced that strong of a reaction in the older man.

It didn't make sense to him. Yes, Greg was a friend of Mycroft's, yes they knew each other, yes, they had some sort of romantic connection according to Greg that was only recently forged, but the video shouldn't have hit Greg this hard. It seemed to be taking the DI by more force than it had taken Sherlock--though that made sense, Sherlock could disconnect himself from this emotionally but there was no way Greg could, evidently--and he seemed to be folding in on himself to avoid what he'd just seen. The reality of the whole situation. Interesting.

Sherlock cataloged his reaction as he did everything else and turned back to his mobile, finishing the message he'd been composing in response to Anthea's latest update. His text of the address to her had spurred a chain reaction and they were close, so very close to knowing for certain. The possibility that he was wrong didn't even cross Sherlock's mind, so he didn't even begin to consider what would happen if it turned out he was. The situation for Mycroft was even more serious now if that video was anything to go by, and he found himself drumming his fingers against the bed as he waited for Anthea's answer, impatient and needing to fidget to release excess energy. By all rights he should have been exhausted, but the thrill of the hunt was thrumming through his veins, anxiety and stress right on its heels in an adrenaline cocktail that kept his eyes wide open. Once the adrenaline wore off, his medication would probably force him to sleep, but the adrenaline would only go away when he was sure Mycroft was safe again.

Greg was speaking to him again, his voice shaky and hoarse in a way that spoke of a compromised emotional state, and Sherlock responded immediately. "I identified the building Mycroft is in, all that's left is for Anthea to check it which she's working on now," he said, the anticipation obvious in his voice. Waiting was killing him, how long did it take to figure out whether they had the right building or not? True, they couldn't just storm the damn place without being certain Mycroft was in it, but that meant they had to check through undercover agents or surveillance tapping or any number of other indirect methods. Usually Sherlock appreciated finesse in solving cases, but in this instance he just wanted it to be over and done with as quickly as possible. "Neil made a mistake by sending us that video, it had everything I needed to know on it." He scoffed softly. "Too arrogant for his own good..."

He went silent again, answering his mobile as soon as it buzzed. A smile slowly unfurled over his face as he read the latest message, the best news he'd received all day. "Got you," he drawled, and looked up from the mobile screen to Greg. "They found him. They're taking the building as soon as they can." They'd have Mycroft back in the hospital where he needed to be, and almost certainly in the same room as Sherlock and Greg if Anthea had anything to say about it. Sherlock had to say, for how irritating the PA was every time he saw her with his brother, she was actually quite capable in an emergency. Mycroft had been missing for far too long but any amount of time he was gone would have been too long. And now, they were going to get him back, and Sherlock could go back to ignoring his brother as he usually did, assured that he was the only person allowed to torture Mycroft once again. That, and he could start planning on the best way to dispose of Neil Gibson.

\-----------------------

"Yes, thank you," Anthea said, hanging up the phone and rattling off another string of orders to her second in command, considered third in the chain of command when Mycroft was here. That was confirmation, from an undercover agent who'd slipped in under the guise of a doctor and confirmed that Mycroft was indeed in the building Sherlock had named, and that Neil was definitely there as well. Unfortunately, she'd also revealed that Mycroft had overdosed on painkillers and was in critical condition at the moment.

This was so much worse than Anthea had thought. She'd known that the situation was already severe from the video, the evidence clearly spelling out that getting Mycroft to testify against Neil was going to be virtually impossible now judging by those whispered confessions and breathy admissions, not to mention the act itself. Mycroft had struck things up with Neil again, at least temporarily, and that meant untangling this mess had just gotten that much harder. But this was worse, much worse. Suicide? She had never seen Mycroft as the type to give up, not unless he had no other choice. True, it was possible that Neil had forced him to OD, but that made no sense whatsoever. Neil wanted to keep Mycroft, not eliminate him, and the fact that he had called in a doctor for Mycroft showed that he was trying to keep the other man alive. God. The thought of Mycroft dying was enough to send her shaking.

It was just so hard to believe that he'd give up that way. Give in, take the easy way out. Hide from Neil in death. Which apparently Neil wasn't letting him do, and for the first time ever Anthea was glad for something Neil Gibson had done. At least he had reacted quickly enough that they got most of the drugs out of Mycroft's system, but it was still his fault Mycroft had taken them in the first place. How was she supposed to tell Greg about this? Or Sherlock? No, no, she wasn't going to tell Sherlock. Mycroft would kill her. If Sherlock deduced it, fine, whatever, she couldn't do anything about that. But she wasn't going to tell him herself. But Greg...

She suppressed a sigh and typed out a quick message to Greg before going back to the recovery efforts, getting the team assembled and placed and everything just so. It was going to be a long night.

**Gregory, I'm sure you've already heard from Sherlock that we confirmed where Mycroft is, and recovery is underway. He'll be back soon. But I have more bad news apart from the video you already saw. Mycroft overdosed on painkillers he must have gotten from Gibson. We had confirmation from one of our agents, who confirmed that he's currently in stable but serious condition and will need treatment when he reaches the hospital. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, and please don't share it with Sherlock. We don't want him to know how badly hurt his brother is.**

\-----------------------

Greg stared back at Sherlock as the younger man fixed him with one of his trademark deductive glares. A long, silent moment passed between them, just enough time for Lestrade to worry that Sherlock would question him as to why his reaction was so extreme, before the detective broke away and resumed fiddling with his mobile.

It took every remaining ounce of Lestrade's strength to not give a relieved sigh. There was absolutely no way to explain his complicated network of feelings about everything to the younger man, and he certainly didn't feel like being belittled for having them in the first place. The very best case scenario, should Sherlock have questioned him, would have been that Greg lost his temper. The worst case would have been if the DI tried and succeeded in explaining to Sherlock why it was so upsetting, how damaged it meant Mycroft was on an emotional level. His older brother's physical hurts were, while not insignificant, something that could be easily healed from. Whatever happened to him mentally and emotionally was another story. Best to let his little brother remain blissfully ignorant of just how bad a state Mycroft was in. Sometimes his blindness to sentiment was a very, very good thing.

Then Sherlock was suddenly grinning and beaming and announcing that Mycroft had been located, that a retrieval team was on its way, that he would be returned to the hospital soon. Strangely, the news didn't do all that much to lift his spirits. There was the initial rush of elation of course, but that quickly gave way to an acute anxiety. Thanks to his own background he knew that this was by far the most dangerous part of the operation by far. So many things could go wrong when taking a building, and hostages were the most likely to be injured if the process went sour. His stomach coiled and writhed, and Lestrade knew that he wouldn't feel any better until he was tangibly able to lay han-- eyes. He wasn't going to feel any better until he was tangibly able to lay **eyes** on Mycroft.

"I have no idea what you did, Sherlock, but it was excellently done." the DI shot the younger man a forced smile; no sense in causing him to share Greg's anxiety. His grin became only half forced when he saw how the younger man was covering his excitement about his brother's recovery with preening about his own brilliance. While it would seem selfish to an outsider, it really was very sweet coming from Sherlock. That he cared enough to try and hide it was one of the biggest compliments someone in his life could receive. Greg made another note to tell Mycroft about it when he was back. It would do the man some good to know how much his brother cared, and Sherlock certainly wasn't going to tell him.

Greg's phone chimed, and he grinned, the happiness beginning to feel a bit more tangible. It would be good to finally share a bit of victory with Anthea; she had been working so tirelessly on not only finding Mycroft but making sure that Greg was prepared to help with his emotional recovery. She really was an extraordinary woman; covering every single base he could think of and a dozen more that never would have occurred to him. Lestrade made a mental note to buy her flowers, lots and lots of flowers, as soon as they were out of the hospital and things had resumed more of an even keel. Yes. Many, many bouquets of flowers.

Then he read her text and the entire bottom dropped out of his world. Numb fingers let his mobile fall to the bed with a dull thud. How could this have happened? And why would Mycroft.... god. As surreal as everything from the prior two days had been, this seemed the most unthinkable. Greg's brain reeled and whirred, trying desperately to cling to some thread of hope or possibly to try and weave everything together in a way that made it look not as dire as he felt it to be. Largely he was unsuccessful, managing to comfort himself only with the thought that at the very least he was on his way back to the hospital where he'd be safe.

A small but powerfully nasty voice in the back of his mind saw fit to remind Greg that just because the politician had been returned to the hospital he wasn't safe. Maybe he'd be temporarily safe from Neil, but he'd never be entirely free of the man until he was incarcerated or dead. Greg was starting to like Sherlock's option more and more with each troubled image that ran through his brain. And after his overdose, it was questionable as to whether or not Mycroft would be safe from _**himself**_.

The DI held out some small hope that it was part of a daring and clever escape plan, a show, something to keep Neil from being able to hurt him anymore. _Which in a way_ , his mind whispered unhelpfully, _it was_. If Neil being dead protected Mycroft, the opposite was true as well. Mycroft's death would insure that Neil couldn't hurt him anymore. Greg's stomach lurched, and a dizzying wave of nausea washed over him. How the hell was he going to explain this to Sherlock? If the young man was already contemplating killing Gibson, what would the news that he spurred his older brother to suicide do? The thought sent a tremble through his spine to his hands, which were already shaking with a combination of rage and fear. He finally managed to will them into working and reclaimed his mobile, typing out a hasty message to Anthea.

**Anthea. Oh my God. I can hardly believe it. Has this ever happened before?**

\-----------------------

Shit. That had taken significantly less time than he had expected. Damn. Something in the video he sent over must have tipped them off somehow to the location, but for the life of him Neil couldn't figure out what that would have been. It was too late to run, so he simply grabbed his jacket and phone, dialing one of his off-site lieutenants as he shrugged on his suit coat.

"Put the hospital plan in motion," he hissed into the receiver. There was just enough time for Neil to hear the garbled but obviously affirmative answer from his lieutenant before a well-armed and armored team burst through the door of his makeshift office. He laid his mobile on the table, using the motion to click off the application that would wipe the device of all personal data. Once his hands were empty he raised them, palms open and facing forward, and gave the collection of people pointing guns at him a broad, victorious smile.

"Well hello, there. I assure you, I am by no means intending on resisting arrest. Not even in the slightest.” He stood, palms still up, and walked to the front of his desk where he turned around and placed his hands in the small of his back. “Though I am curious as to how long exactly you think it is you’ll be holding me. Anyone care to start a betting pool?”

Neil was not surprised to find himself zip-tied in short order. The comment had made the operative that secured him tug the bonds a bit tighter than strictly necessary, but it was worth it. Each and every one of them needed to be reminded that while they had Neil temporarily, he had still kidnapped and taken down their leader like it was child's play before shagging him into the mattress. Certainly he was allowed a certain amount of pride in his bearing, even while being arrested, for the latter accomplishment alone.

After he had been secured, the team holding him led him out of the building. When the passed the back of the EMT transport he gave the officer leading him a smug, satisfied grin. He couldn't see Mycroft's prone form on the gurney in the back, surrounded as he was by people, but no-one else would have merited that much medical attention from not just emergency services personnel but plainclothes doctors as well. That was the last interesting thing that happened for quite some time as the blonde found himself unceremoniously dumped in the backseat of a cruiser and left to his own devices. The silence gave him the perfect opportunity to start working on various stratagems and defenses. While he had never pursued it to the inevitable career it would have led to, Neil had been pre-law in Uni. It just so happened that crime was half the work, twice the money, and infinitely more entertaining. Eyes closed, he plotted and waited.

The wait to start moving was long, but the trip back to NSY was relatively short. Once he had been processed, it was only a matter of wait and see. Though they kept him waiting in an empty interrogation room for several hours, he stalwartly refused anything and everything offered to him. Water, food, they even tried to offer him cigarettes to get him to say anything. In between offers they would send in officers to question him. Even the 'good cop' detectives had undisguised hatred in their eyes; Lestrade was well liked by his peers, then. Each time, whether they offered or threatened or questioned, Gibson regarded them cool green eyes and informed them that he would speak to no one but his lawyer.

Finally, his own small army of legal counsel arrived. After some very thorough back and forth negotiations, though calling them 'negotiations' was a bit misleading as neither team was willing to give so much as a millimeter of ground to the other, an outcome was finally reached. No matter how hard his team fought it, NSY was perfectly in their legal rights to hold him for more than the basic 24 hours before officially charging or releasing him. Somehow the conditions of his arrest linked him with a variety of serious offenses, none of which would yield enough evidence for a formal charge let alone a conviction, but it did make it possible for the police to hold him longer. Neil gave a small, disinterested sigh and a shrug. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been held in custody, and it wouldn't be the last.

Once that had been cleared up his lawyers dispersed, each pursuing their own specialty to help refute any potential charges being brought against their client. Neil was finally led to a holding cell and left alone. Settling back on the disgustingly thin cot, he couldn't help but smile. At least he had time to set the plan against Lestrade in motion. If Mycroft died it would be a bit unnecessary, but it was a waste of a good plan to let it go. By the time that Neil Gibson was released (without any pending charges, obviously), Gregory Lestrade would be dead.

\-----------------------

Constant updates were flowing in from the recovery, and almost none of them were making Anthea feel any better. There was the initial wave of relief, of course, once it was confirmed that they had custody of Mycroft again, and she could see some of the tension drop out of everyone in the room at the news that their employer was, at least, back in good hands. Everything else from there, however, was only concerning. Mycroft was in an ambulance with EMTs and several plainclothes doctors on the way to the hospital, but his condition was still serious and there was little they could do for him at the moment. It was just good that they'd gotten him back this soon, or things could have been much worse.

She nearly laughed when she got that particular message. Things could not be much worse right now, unless Mycroft had died. Instead, she was left with an unconscious and emotionally damaged boss, a homicidal younger brother who was liable to try to get out of bed and kill Neil with his bare hands if he found out what happened, and a deeply caring DI who was trying to keep everyone else afloat while neglecting his own poor broken heart. As if on cue, her mobile buzzed with a new message from Greg that she quickly read over, the wording brief but still having a significant impact.

Christ, she hated doing this to Greg. She could practically feel the concern oozing out of the message, could picture the expression on Greg's face when he asked and hear the tone of his voice, the same broken tone he'd used during their conversation about Mycroft hours ago. It made her feel slightly guilty for having involved him in this mess in the first place, but really, could she have avoided getting him involved? Greg wanted to do whatever he could for Mycroft, he had made that abundantly clear, and you didn't have to be a Holmes brother to realize the DI was emotionally invested in Mycroft's safety. It was heartbreaking, really, that what could have been a great connection between Greg and Mycroft was being marred by the terrible events of the past two days. It was part of the reason why she was going to have Mycroft put into Greg and Sherlock's room as soon as he arrived, hoping that having both Greg and Sherlock there would make the other man feel even just a little bit better.

Though asking someone who had just downed an entire bottle of painkillers in order to get away from their psychopathic ex boyfriend who'd they'd recently relapsed with how they were feeling seemed fairly ridiculous. More than fairly, actually. When Mycroft actually woke up from this, she was going to have to ensure that certain rules were put into place for those around him. She couldn't even think about controlling Sherlock's behavior, but she could at least make sure the team behaved themselves. If the name Neil Gibson crossed anyone's lips anywhere near Mycroft, that person would be off the team. There wasn't any room for mistakes here, not when Mycroft was the most fragile she had seen him in a long time. It was hard not to sigh when she set about typing her response to Greg.

**There have been a few times where Mycroft has nearly starved himself to death, back in the worst days of his eating disorder, but no, he's never intentionally tried to take his life before now, at least not in the time that I've known him. Maybe when he was a teenager, I don't know, you'd have to ask Sherlock, but even he might not know. Mycroft has a particular skill at hiding things from those closest to him. So the fact that he chose to do this now...well, I don't have to tell you how badly this bodes for his mental state. The good news is that Neil is currently in custody and will be held for at least 24 hours. The bad news is that we can't guarantee he'll be held for longer than that, as the circumstances of his arrest are certainly suspicious, but don't provide enough evidence for any charges. So in all likelihood, Neil could be released within 24 hours and without testimony from Mycroft or Mycroft's explicit orders, there's nothing we can do but try to keep him away from Mycroft. And when Mycroft regains consciousness, he might actually want to see Neil. I'm sorry, Greg.**

She paused for a minute, drumming her manicured nails against the back of the phone as she tried to think of something else to say. Nothing came and she sent the message, knowing it would do little to comfort the overstressed DI. If she had anything more comforting to say, though, she would have said it. Nothing about this entire situation was okay by her standards, and certainly not by Greg's. She could only do what she could and pray that Sherlock didn't have a complete breakdown when he saw his brother.

Mycroft's transport to the hospital took longer than she would have liked but at least he received care as soon as he was in the door, a veritable flood of medical staff ready with IVs to replenish the fluids he'd already lost while they prepared the equipment to pump his stomach in an effort to get the rest of the medication he'd swallowed out, though most of the damage had been done at this point. The team hung back from the proceedings, knowing that their anxious hovering wouldn't do anything to help their employer now. Anthea hung back as well, handling things from a distance and instantly ready to provide any information that was necessary.

Mycroft looked...well, he looked awful, but she'd expected the exhaustion and general raggedness caused by the overdose. What she hadn't expected, really, were the obvious signs of his activities with Neil. The bite marks, the hickeys, the scratch marks barely visible on his hipbones above the waistband of his trousers when they took his shirt off. He was covered--was in fact practically overflowing--with evidence of Neil Gibson, and just the sight of it was nearly enough to make Anthea sick. She couldn't send him into Sherlock and Greg looking like this. He looked like he'd gone through hell and back and oh by the way had also had sex while he was there. Sex with his psychopathic ex. Jesus. Another mental note to make sure Mycroft didn't have access to a mobile for at least the next few days, because Neil could lure him away with just his words, he'd done it this time. Maybe no access to a mobile for a few weeks would be best, as much as Mycroft was going to pitch a fit about it. The worst part was that she was sure, absolutely certain, that no length of separation would stop this thing with Neil. It didn't matter if she isolated Mycroft for years, Neil would still find a way to get to him and ruin him again. And Mycroft would let it happen. She repressed another sigh before typing out a message that went to both Sherlock and Greg.

**Mycroft is in the hospital and currently receiving care. I will let you know when he is on his way to you.**

\-----------------------

It was only a dull thud, a blunt object hitting a bed and making little noise, but it was enough to grab his attention in the otherwise silent hospital room, and Sherlock's head swiveled to look at the bed next to his. Greg looked like the world was crashing down around him. His mobile was on the bed, his hands still held up in the position they must have been in when he was holding the phone. A text then, something on his phone that was causing him this distress. Yes, Sherlock distantly recalled having heard it go off a few moments before, after he told Greg that Mycroft was being recovered. Anthea confirming the same thing? But then why would Greg be so upset?

Before he could really consider the answer, Greg had picked up his phone and was typing a message back, a short one judging from the length of time it took him and the number of keys he pressed. That shell-shocked look didn't leave his eyes though, a sort of grim determination in his expression as well. Something had the DI badly shaken, so much so that any happiness at Mycroft's recovery was wiped out instantly. In that case, it was most likely something about Mycroft, especially since Sherlock hadn't seen the DI answer a personal text since they'd been in the same hospital room. But what would Greg know about Mycroft that Sherlock didn't? Why wouldn't Anthea tell him his brother's condition?

Unless it was much worse than it should be and she didn't want him to know. A few flickers of anger stirred in his stomach at the thought of people purposefully hiding things from him. It was his brother, for god's sake, if anyone needed to be kept up to date on his condition it was certainly him! He was glaring a hole into the wall, mind churning furiously away at all of the awful possibilities for his brother, when his mobile went off at the same time as Greg's. He snapped it up into his hand, reading over Anthea's brief message.

"Good, then we have some time to talk before he gets here," he said when he'd finished, dropping his phone back onto the bed and turning to look at Greg with no small amount of hostility in his gaze. "It's come to my attention that you might be better informed as to my brother's condition than I am, Lestrade, so I am demanding that you tell me what you know. Every detail Anthea may have shared with you, though why she wouldn't tell me as well is beyond me. Well? What do you know?"

\-----------------------

After he sent off his short response to Anthea, Greg let himself slip into sort of a detached numbness. It was a practiced feeling, born of years working in emotionally and physically volatile situations. Countless times he had helped him in his work, allowing him to keep a cool head in the midst of otherwise crazy or dangerous proceedings. Right now, it was an absolute blessing; not having to feel each sick pang his stomach made every time his thoughts brushed over Anthea's words was probably what was keeping him from breaking. The last 48 hours had been both wonderful and strange.

Sherlock's voice was the trigger that shook him out of his deep internal thoughts. Greg was more than familiar with the sullen tone that was building in Sherlock's voice. That was the 'warning' tone, the one that he had learned over the last two years to identify as the precursor to one of the younger man's more impressive fits. Sherlock could be so very childlike in some ways, especially when it came to dealing with things of an emotional nature. As such he did not deal with frustration very well. Given that he was largely immobile and had finally deduced that Anthea was sharing some information with Greg only, the young detective was very likely churning with vexation and fury. The absolutely hateful glare that Greg got from those aquamarine eyes when he raised his gaze to meet Sherlock's merely confirmed his suspicions. The lanky young man was on the verge of having a bit of a tantrum, and sure enough as soon as Lestrade had the thought accusations and demands were pouring forth with no small amount of venom behind them. The forcefulness of Sherlock's reaction took the DI by surprise. There was something subtly different about the raven haired detective's tone, something that didn't sync up with the previous fits of temper Greg had witnessed

"Y _ou might be better informed as to my brother's condition than I am..._ "

Jealousy. that was jealousy! Oh god, Sherlock was actually _**jealous**_ that Greg was receiving information about Mycroft and he wasn't. What the DI couldn't tell where the resentment had it's roots. Was it the detective in Sherlock that was angered by the idea of not having all the facts at his disposal? Or was it the little brother, worried about his sibling and threatened by the idea of being cut out of Mycroft's care process? The thought was confusing, as Sherlock didn't outwardly seem to care for his brother at all. But having witnessed younger Holmes's reactions over Mycroft's dire situation Greg knew that to be anything but true. The Holmes brothers very much loved each other, they both just had damnably convoluted and sometimes hostile ways of showing it. That meant in this particular case Sherlock was just another concerned family member, if surlier than the average. Poor kid probably just needed a bit of reassurance.

"Sherlock," he soothed. Or at least, he tried to soothe. Mostly he just sounded gravelly and bone weary. "Mycroft's in pretty bad shape, but he's being well cared for. They're taking him for a relatively minor procedure, and then they'll be bringing him to our room to stay with us. Anthea didn't want to tell you because she didn't want to upset you. Which, given your reaction, is a valid concern. You know, **you** aren't well either. Huffing about and yelling at people isn't going to do you any good, and it's not going to fix Mycroft either. Quite the opposite in fact." He gave Sherlock a measured glance that had a small amount of humor in it. The DI had fully intended to meet Sherlock with a full grin, but a thin smile was all he could measure. As comforting as he was trying to be to Sherlock, Anthea's words and the sheer weight of the situation sat on his conscience heavily.

"Please try to relax, or at least rest. They'll be bringing Mycroft in shortly, you'll be able to see what kind of condition he is in then. And before that?" Deep brown eyes fixed his younger companion with a hard stare, hoping to drill the words into the other man's head by the force of his gaze alone. "There's no sense in worrying about it. There isn't much you can do, that either of us can do, from our current positions. So let's try to wait it out without tearing each other apart, yeah?"

Then his phone went off again, the answering text from Anthea chiming with a disturbing cheerfulness despite the undoubtedly heavy subject material contained within. Hesitantly, he skimmed the information while he waited for Sherlock's response. The words all jumbled together on the screen, and no matter how much he tried he couldn't get them to form a coherent sentence. Yet somehow their meanings were unspeakably clear. Mycroft had nearly starved himself to death previously. May have attempted suicide as a teenager. Certainly tried to commit suicide now, thanks to whatever it was that Neil had done to him. Despite all that, once Neil was released from custody there was a good chance that Mycroft would want to go back to the madman. The DI's heart had already shattered at the news of Mycroft suicide attempt. The thought that the politician might try and go running back to his abuser just ground the shards into his chest; thousands of small, spiky pains coursing through him every time he tried to breathe. Without meaning to, he made a soft, strangled sound. He raised one hand to his face, meaning to follow through with his nervous gesture of raking it through his hair but it just sat still instead, half covering his eyes so Sherlock wouldn't have to see how utterly hopeless he felt. The idea that Mycroft might choose to go back with Neil instead of stay and try to make their tentative connection work was a bloody lash to his already tattered heart.

Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector and temporary filler. A placeholder. A disposable partner. It seemed fitting. Throughout Uni he dated casually and briefly, only to see his flings settle in with someone for a more long term relationship once they had parted ways. That went on until he met Janice. Once married she had evidently felt the same, using him as a placeholder husband until the type of man she really wanted came around and she no longer had to settle. She was out the door the instant something closer to what she wanted came along. Perhaps it had been foolish to expect anything different of Mycroft. People didn't want Gregory Lestrade, they wanted company, wanted to not be lonely. Lestrade happened to be a convenient tool, willing to fill that space in whoever asked for as long as they would let him, at least until they found what they really wanted and cast him aside. Every time. Every fucking time.

It had been sheer, unmitigated fantasy to think that Mycroft would have been any different. Not that it was the politician's fault. Greg certainly held no ill feelings; being lonely was hell and spending time with the politician was nice. They both benefited. It wasn't Mycroft's fault that any of the evening's disasters had taken place, and he certainly couldn't have guessed that his psychopathic ex boyfriend was going to sneak back into his life and kidnap him. At least Anthea was being honest about Mycroft's likely desire to leave and pursue that path. At the thought, something in Greg snapped and steeled, going cold and a bit hard. Mycroft deserved better. And in that moment Lestrade knew. He'd stay, he'd help Mycroft patch himself up, keep him from hurting himself as best he could. Give Mycroft the affection and appreciation he deserved, especially because the DI had no shortage of it for the man. Help him recover, for weeks. Or months. Or years. However long Mycroft needed him, Greg would stay. Until one day, when the handsome politician met the person he had **really** been waiting for. The day that he wouldn't need the DI would be the day that Mycroft Holmes walked away, the same as everyone else. And Greg would let him go.

So, those were the options. Throw himself all in and try save Mycroft at any cost. Or withhold himself from the situation so as to avoid another eventual rejection, and leave Mycroft to face the ugliness of his life alone. When put like that, it was no contest. Greg swore to himself that he'd give Mycroft absolutely everything he had, and then some. _He'll leave you eventually_ , the nasty voice in the back of his mind whispered. Greg was unsurprised to find that he was still determined to stay. He was hopelessly devoted to Mycroft Holmes; his heart made sure he had no say in the matter. When that inevitable time came it would kill him, but he'd let go. Well, better him than Mycroft anyway. A sort of calm resignation washed over Lestrade. Knowing his fate made it easier to deal with. His mobile pinged again, but he ignored it, opting instead to curl up onto his side, cursing softly as his stitches pulled taut over the wound in his abdomen.

He felt bad turning his back on Sherlock, but Lestrade knew he needed this. Just a few minutes to feel badly for himself. A chance to let it out, to mourn their fledgling relationship and prepare himself for yet another stretch of settling for whatever affection he could get, basking in the glow of someone that he adored much more than they adored him. At least Mycroft would be a good deal kinder than Janice had been. It would be worth it; to see those rare smiles, to watch Mycroft finally heal and become happy, even if it broke his heart completely in the process. At least Lestrade knew he'd be devoting it to a good cause. After all, what could be a greater way to sacrifice one's heart than to fuel the mending of someone else's?

\-----------------------

If there was one thing Sherlock absolutely hated, it was being condescended to. Even when he was a kid and adults chose to speak to him the way they would speak to anyone his age, he found a creative way to tell them exactly how he felt about such treatment, though if all else failed he could always deduce things about their failing marriages or inability to have children or affairs with the staff. His parents very quickly learned that taking him to parties would only fuel the sadistic streak running through him, and they stopped taking him altogether unless Mycroft was there to reign him in. Mycroft, of course, was the perfect party guest. Polite, well groomed, charming, capable of carrying on a conversation about any topic, the Holmes family delighted in showing him off almost as much as they enjoyed throwing him at Sherlock in an effort to get the younger man to behave himself. Mycroft, at least, had always treated his brother as an equal, never looking down on him, never treating him as anything less than he was; a brilliant, precocious, if oftentimes misguided child. So the one thing Sherlock could not, under any circumstances, tolerate was being condescended to. And he felt that was exactly what Greg was doing right now.

Sure, the man was trying to be 'comforting', but Sherlock wasn't some child who needed to be reassured that the world was still turning despite his brother's injuries. He was a fully grown adult who was entitled to be informed of every change in his brother's conditions. Hell, he had more of a right to that information than Greg did, what was Greg to Mycroft? A companion, sort of friend, maybe-something-romantic-at-some-point who had taken it upon himself to involve himself in Mycroft's care more than Sherlock was involved, and that was simply unacceptable. Sherlock had just had his brother kidnapped by a psychopath and returned in worse condition than he'd left in, and he didn't even know the condition he was in for certain!

A minor procedure? Surely Greg wouldn't be this shaken if it was a minor procedure, Sherlock had seen the look on his face when he read the text that started the train of doubt in his mind. Obviously there was something more going on or Greg wouldn't be going to such great lengths to hide it. Besides, from what he'd heard Mycroft had been shot in the arm earlier in the evening but that was about it for his injuries, and that had already been treated. So what need would he have of any procedures, aside from maybe checking his stitches? And he didn't care if he himself was injured, what did that matter at the moment? All that mattered was Mycroft's condition, and he didn't want to wait until he was wheeled in to find it out. He turned to say as much to Greg and stopped, surprised.

Greg...Greg looked broken. His mobile in his hand, his other hand shielding his eyes as if he could hide his expression from Sherlock, but Sherlock could still see the slight downward turn at the corners of his mouth, like he was trying to hold back tears. What, another damaging message from his phone, something else Sherlock wasn't supposed to know? Something worse about Mycroft that Anthea was sharing with him? Or something else? Sherlock's eyes darted rapidly as he tried to deduce what Greg had read through sheer willpower alone, but Greg was rolling onto his side and in a moment his back was to Sherlock, shielding his expression and thoughts from the younger man who was so used to having them all laid out and easily readable. No, he wouldn't be able to get anything out of Greg at the moment, Greg was dealing with something else that Sherlock didn't understand, didn't know about. So, he decided to go straight to the source.

Anthea didn't respond to his message for several minutes, and when she finally did, all she said was, **He's on his way.** Slightly mollified by the thought that finally, _finally_ he'd be able to see his brother and make sure he was alright, Sherlock sank back onto his bed, closing his eyes as he waited, fingers drumming a nervous, erratic rhythm on the bed beneath him as he waited. For once, he didn't know what to make of Greg's actions. The DI seemed to be far more attached to Mycroft than he had led on, which made no sense to Sherlock. He would have known already if they were seeing each other, but neither of them had given any indication of that and from what Greg had said earlier the connection between them was rather recently forged, and by recently he really meant just before they were attacked. It didn't make any sense that Greg would be so attached to Mycroft if such little time had gone by, and yet the DI seemed to be taking everything very poorly, even worse than Sherlock was taking things. He was in the middle of running through all of the facts gathered about Greg's relationship with his brother when they wheeled Mycroft in, and thought ceased for a moment, eyes snapping back open.

It was a few minutes before he could speak, and when he did, it was only to ask; "Why is he unconscious?" The nursing staff determinedly didn't look at him, finishing settling Mycroft in his bed, attaching the necessary tubes and hoses needed to keep his condition stable, including the heart monitor that registered a feeble, slow heartbeat. "You said he took a bullet in the arm, why is he unconscious, he was up and about and _walking_ earlier, why on earth is he unconscious?" Sherlock demanded to know, voice rising slightly as the staff continued to ignore him. Clearly Anthea had ordered them not to tell him anything, because as soon as Mycroft was set up on the bed they disappeared again, Sherlock's flinty sage eyes following them as they left. Those eyes darted back to his brother, unable to stop themselves from cataloging away details about him from the marks he could see. There was little information to gain, as the hickeys on his neck just confirmed what Sherlock already knew and nothing else was obvious enough to explain why he was unconscious when he'd been perfectly fine earlier. His arm was still bound up, yes, and they'd changed him into hospital clothing, but there were no needle marks anywhere to indicate he'd been given a sedative though an oral or gaseous one was not out of the question.

Sherlock had to physically restrain himself from getting out of bed to check his brother's charts, turning instead to look at Greg again with ice in his gaze. "Lestrade, why on earth is my brother unconscious and what do you know about this that I don't know?" he asked, his voice a hard edge through gritted teeth that didn't want to release their grip. Rest, Greg had said. How could he rest when his brother looked worse than he could have imagined and was lying a few feet from him absolutely wrecked? Sherlock's fingers twitched with the effort needed to keep them from throwing the covers off his bed and going to Mycroft's bedside to read the information left behind by doctors. God, Anthea was going to catch hell from him for this. Everyone was.

\-----------------------

Neil casually checked his rather expensive, custom made Hermes watch. Six hours had passed since he was taken into police custody. That meant that they had another eighteen hours or so before they had to bring up charges or release him. Another twenty four, perhaps, if they skillfully argued that they needed Mycroft's statement before releasing him and the politician hadn't come out of his self induced unconsciousness.

Neil hated waiting. Patience had never been one of his strengths, and years of being at the top of his organization had done little to change his nature. The police had of course confiscated his phone, leaving him with little to do but mentally go over each and every aspect of his potential case. Certainly, he had an army of lawyers to take care of such things, but he'd found it was terribly unwise to leave his fate in the hands of others. As with everything else, he'd be at the forefront, directing while the rest followed his direction. He turned over a few defenses in his mind, but nothing seemed to stick out as particularly worthwhile.

Instead, his mind kept drifting back to Mycroft's last message. ' _I win_.' Two simple words. They should have been easily discarded as the meaningless taunt they were intended to be. Instead, Neil had never been more infuriated in his entire life. Rather than working out any potential defenses against what charges they could manage to bring against him, he spent his energy trying to devise the perfect punishment for Mycroft. Something truly special for when he finally woke. The best idea that Neil had was to keep his darling little brother Sherlock as a plaything; smiling at the idea of torturing the young man, perhaps when Mycroft was being particularly stubborn, or perhaps for no reason at all. Surely it would break his spirit and prove definitively that their game only ever had one winner from the very beginning, and that was Neil and Neil alone. Only the arrival of one of his legal team roused him from his sadistic reflections.

They spoke for awhile about the case, a few above-board business matters that needed his seal of approval, and a few less legal items that needed his attention. The coded language was likely obvious to any observers, but it would take someone as sharp as Mycroft to even begin unraveling the intricacies, and, well. The only two men in London capable of that level of higher thought were currently both occupying hospital beds. Matters taken care of, his short respite from boredom was over, his legal aide rose and walked towards the door, but stopped before exiting completely.

"Oh. I almost forgot. Bennett want to let you know that he took care of DVRing your favorite show for you. So at least you'll have that to look forward to when you get out of here." With a smile, she turned and was gone, and Neil was escorted back to his cell, smiling all the way. The morphine drip had been applied. By the time he was released from his temporary incarceration, Gregory Lestrade would be very, very dead.

\-----------------------

Even after he turned away on his side, Greg could positively feel Sherlock seething across the room. There were fewer things that the young man hated than not knowing something. It was likely eating him up. Hell, Greg would have felt the same if the situations had been reversed. Being left with nothing but the worst case scenarios that your brain could produce was a special kind of hell, and the DI felt awful for putting his friend through it. But Anthea was right; the situation was delicate and there were already far too many unpredictable factors in play. If Sherlock knew that whatever Neil had put his brother through had caused him to attempt to poison himself, well, there was simply no telling what the detective would do. Not that Lestrade didn't feel the overwhelming urge to crush the life out of the man with his bare hands. Quite the opposite. But when Mycroft woke up he needed Sherlock to be there instead of worrying about him escaping the hospital and going on a revenge quest while still injured.

He had just gotten ready to tell the younger man as much when a team of doctors, nurses, and other assorted medical staff wheeled Mycroft into their room. The already crowded space became choked with people, each buzzing around the politician setting up different monitors and devices, checking notes, and taking vitals. Each professional was working with a frantic determination that was reserved, in Greg's experience at least, for on site accident care. Every time Lestrade managed to think that he knew how important Mycroft really was to the government, something like this happened. There must have been at least a dozen people desperately churning around the politician's bed, and from what Greg could tell his condition was serious but relatively stable. One member of the team broke away after a minute, coming over to check Lestrade's IV and vitals. She smiled gently and whispered that she'd given him a little something extra to help with the pain, nodding to Sherlock with a knowing look in her eyes. Ah. So she'd been on staff and around for one of his previous fits. What an angel. Gut wound or Sherlock Holmes, the DI only had the energy for one.

After a few minutes of shocked silence when they first brought his brother in, the younger Holmes seemed to find his voice again. Sherlock bellowed in the background, growing more and more irritated with each unanswered question about his brother's condition. While the detective's voice was largely filled with heat, there was a desperate edge to it that Greg had never heard before. It was barely perceptible, but it was there. He certainly wasn't capable of reading people on the same level as Sherlock was, but he had conducted enough police interviews in his life to catch the vocal nuances and read them for what they were. Sherlock was worried. Beyond worried, and rightfully so.

Mycroft looked, well... he looked terrible. His skin was completely ashen except for a few purplish love-bites that stood out starkly on the column of his throat. The sight of them made Greg's stomach writhe before the answering surge of anger tightened into a hard knot, stemming the tide of rather undeserved jealousy. He didn't have any claim to Mycroft, other than the promises he had made to himself to look after the man. Instead of dwelling, he let his eyes wander over the rest of the politician. Every detail he took in just seemed wrong. Something was terribly off. Oh. Right. Lestrade almost gave a humorless laugh when he realized that the first time he had seen Mycroft out of a suit was when the man was bedecked in a hospital gown. The cheap, oddly patterned fabric gown made him look much smaller than his actual size. Even his normally impeccable auburn hair was in disarray, a single stubborn curl gracing his forehead. Added together with the sluggish beat of his heart monitor, his slung arm, and the tangle of IV cords that surrounded him, it made the normally solid man seem less tangible. Ephemeral and fragile. Had Sherlock ever seen his brother in such a state before? It was doubtful. It must be so disconcerting, to have such a constant force in you life laid out and helpless before you.

Considering that, Greg knew that he couldn't leave Sherlock completely in the dark. It was just too cruel. He'd promised Mycroft that he'd look after his brother, and he couldn't just let the detective suffer. Not that he could tell him the outright truth, though. That would be just as damaging, in a wholly different way. Perhaps part of the truth would satisfy him. Undoubtedly Sherlock would know that there was more to the story; Lestrade had only ever tried to lie to the lanky detective twice and both instances were unmitigated disasters. All the DI could do was hope against all odds that the younger Holmes would recognize how stuck Greg was, and grant him a little clemency. When the last of the medical staff hastily disappeared from the room, the tone in Sherlock's voice caused any hope Lestrade had of receiving a desperately needed reprieve to gutter out. The detective was about half a step away from going feral, his green eyes wild and gritted teeth bared in a nasty snarl as he demanded more information about his brother's unconsciousness. With a resigned sigh, Greg rolled back over and tried to give Sherlock a comforting smile, but between the strain on his stitches and his general level of exhaustion it just came out as a grimace.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ignore you like that. I... I just needed a minute." Lestrade gestured to his side, hoping that Sherlock would accept the largely flimsy excuse. "As for Mycroft, he was poisoned. Some kind of painkiller, I think Anthea said. They've pumped his stomach, and now he's recovering." Before Sherlock could launch into tearing apart his statement, brief as it was, he managed to sputter out a few more words.

"Hey. Are you doing ok? I know this has to be hard for you. For what it's worth, I hate seeing him like this too." The sympathetic impact of his words was dulled a little by the DI's largely failed attempt to strangle down a yawn. He felt nicely fuzzy around the edges. A bit muddled, but not in a bad way. Just sort of sleepy. Certainly his side hurt less. Maybe he'd be able to get some sleep, some **real** sleep, now that Mycroft had been returned. He just had to make sure Sherlock was ok first.

"If you need anything, I'm here for you, you know. You might not think it, but I consider you both a colleague and a friend. So, if you need someone to talk to, I'm all ears."

\-----------------------

Sherlock was half a step away from absolutely tearing apart Greg's statement when the DI cut him off, insisting that he was there for the detective and asking him about his own feelings. What really tipped him over the edge, however, was Greg saying that he hated seeing Mycroft this way. What would Greg know about that? Greg hadn't been there after the accident when Mycroft had looked even worse than this, when he had lain broken in a coma for far longer and with much more serious consequences. He didn't know anything about what Mycroft had been through before, how much worse Sherlock had seen him. No, it wasn't his brother's condition that was making him angry; it was the fact that everyone saw fit to lie to him about that condition. Like he was some child on the verge of throwing a tantrum.

At the time of the accident, his relationship with his brother had been much in the same place it was now; he was rarely polite to his brother and Mycroft watched over him like an overbearing hawk, but they both showed the same deep level of caring when push came to shove. And Neil didn't just shove the brothers with the accident, he practically ripped Mycroft away from Sherlock. Sherlock had been healthy at the time--at least, as healthy as he could really be at any given time, especially with cocaine running through his veins more often than not--and so the only reasonable course of action had been for him to set about tracking down Neil. He didn't succeed, of course, because Mycroft woke up and reined him back in with no small amount of effort, but he at least succeeded in hurting Neil in whatever small way he could, mostly by dismantling his networks, getting his lieutenants arrested, and freezing as many of Neil's assets as he could get his hands on, mostly through hacking. Sherlock had been willing to tear England apart in order to get to Neil, and that was all because of how his brother had looked in that hospital bed, sad, broken, irreparable.

He had had all the facts then, though. Anthea hadn't been able to keep him from staying completely up to date on his brother's condition, and in fact hadn't even tried to stop him from finding things out. It was what spurred him on, yes, but this lying made him even more furious than he had been the first time. If Mycroft had really been just poisoned with painkillers, what reason would they have for hiding it from him? His reaction? He had to hold down a contemptuous snort at that. He was already going to be furious with Neil no matter what, he had expressed a sincere desire to kill him earlier, so lying to him about Mycroft's condition wasn't exactly going to stop him. So why would they hide that from him? What was to gain from keeping him in the dark?

"I'm fine," he spat at Greg, features twisted up into something that could only be described as an angry grimace, as if the question personally offended him. Which he pretty much did. His emotional state didn't matter at the moment, why was that what they were always concerned with? "I would be much better if you and Anthea stopped lying to me about what's going on with my brother. Why would you even bother trying when you know I'm going to see through anything you say? Neither you nor Anthea has the skill to lie to me, the only person who can manage that is lying in a hospital bed in this room, unconscious for reasons you all decided not to share with me." His voice was getting dangerously lower with every word, the words coming out in an angry rapid-fire he usually only used for shutting people down. Calming down was not an option at the moment.

"And in case you don't remember, Lestrade, I am his brother, his _only_ brother, and despite whatever--" he fumbled for a word for a moment, "--connection you think you've formed with my brother, I am still the one responsible for his care, I'm still the one who needs to be kept up to date, I'm the one who saw him like this when he had his accident four years ago. I'm the one who should be involved, and not you, so you can take your apologies and false sincerity elsewhere, I have no use for your sentiment here."

His words done and his chest heaving slightly with the force with which he'd spoken them, he decidedly turned away from Greg, his fingers steepled underneath his chin again as he thought. Given enough time and just a small amount of evidence, he could figure this out. He had no doubt that Mycroft had actually been poisoned with painkillers; that hadn't sounded like a lie from Greg, and Mycroft's general asheness and unconsciousness would be congruent with a poisoning and subsequently having his stomach pumped, which would explain why he had come into the room a short time after he was delivered to the hospital. But he had seen Mycroft in the security footage, and he'd been fine there. No signs of distress, no signs of an overdose setting in. So it had happened after the video.

What, after the video Neil had poisoned Mycroft? That didn't make any sense, it had looked like Neil was fully intending to keep Mycroft for longer than he'd actually been able to. And someone else wouldn't manage to poison Mycroft, besides, who on Neil's team would have motive to poison him? What purpose would that serve? So that left the only possible perpetrator as--oh god. Mycroft had done it himself. His brother had tried to kill himself.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg and Sherlock blow off a little steam before getting some rest, Anthea checks up on her boys and prepare for Mycroft's arrival.
> 
> Warnings: references to suicide, references to eating disorders, drug use, emotional abuse, dub con, nightmares, massive angst and introspection, blackmail, kidnapping, "emotional torture porn", and general dark subject material.

When Sherlock started venomously spitting out his angry diatribe Greg felt oddly fond of him, if just for a moment. It wasn't as if he expected the young man to take him up on his offer and actually **talk** about anything. God forbid! That was not the Holmes way. But the offer itself, though he knew it was going to be denied, was important. Lestrade fully remembered the way people treated Danny; and though his brother had been exceptionally sharp witted and tongued, he couldn't have held a candle to Sherlock at his best. But making the effort to reach out to the dark haired young man counted for something, on some level, if only because so few people ever would. And, well. The rejection of his offer didn't sting. Not at all; it had been expected. Greg understood, Sherlock wouldn't ever reciprocate the feeling of friendship that he felt for the younger man, and if by some fluke he ever did he certainly wouldn't tell him.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock kept going, snapping at Greg about how he was Mycroft's brother, and 'responsible for his care'. Verbally making it obvious that if he had his way, Greg would be cut out of the entire situation. The stinging words came in a rapid torrent, and it was hard not to fling out a few choice words of his own. Part of Greg wanted to lash out at Sherlock, to point out that Sherlock was rarely involved in 'mundane matters' enough to tend to his own needs let alone anyone else's, but he bit back the words before they could escape. The angry young man kept going on and on, before finally letting his tirade finish. The lanky detective rolled over, sullenly turning his back on the DI as if to prove how completely done he was with their conversation. The adrenaline from their argument had taken the edge off the nice fuzzy feeling Greg had acquired, and he decided to take the opportunity to explain a few things to Sherlock. Even if Greg wasn't going to tell Sherlock the horrible reason WHY Mycroft was unconscious, he could at least tell him **why** he wasn't telling him.

"I'm damn well not going to tell you what happened, Sherlock." Lestrade's tone of voice was much milder than his words as he addressed the younger man, who had fully turned his back on him. "That's the thing about the truth. It isn't owed to you just because it exists. Sometimes people are entitled to their privacy. And sometimes, people have to keep things from each other because the truth makes them act like complete and utter twats. Yeah. Mycroft told me what happened the last time you tried to go after Neil." Lestrade wasn't yelling. His voice wasn't even raised. His tone wasn't heated or angry. It was just sort of... blank. Fighting with Sherlock was a bit like fighting with his ex; Lestrade had learned he just had to turn himself off and speak his peace, while sparing a thought to pray he came out with at least a shred of his dignity intact. Part of Greg just wanted to roll over and close his eyes, drift on the lovely, floating feeling that filled him until he was asleep. Instead he fought a losing battle against another yawn before beginning again, too tired to notice that Sherlock hadn't taken the split second break to jump back into the conversation.

"So yeah. Of course Anthea and I are trying everything in our power to keep you from running off and doing something like that again. If you expect not to be treated like a child, then perhaps you should stop acting like one and try to putsomebody else's needs before what you want. You want someone to fully tell you what happened? How about proving that you can take the news without hying off to god knows where, doing god knows what to punish someone when you damn well know your brother would rather have you safe." The DI's words were still cool and even, though he was surprised at how completely exhausted he sounded. Still no answer from came from Sherlock. It didn't seem quite right, but Lestrade was a bit too tired, too fuzzy headed to register what about the silence sat ill with him. Besides, whatever the nurse had given him was making him oddly loose lipped. A bit like he he had one too many pints and was just this side of incapable of holding his tongue. Everything that crossed his mind ended up coming out of his mouth. Maybe this was what Sherlock felt like all the time. It would certainly explain some things. Like everything the detective said. "And another thing. Who do you think even left Anthea and me with the request to not give you information? We're doing this at your brother's behest."

"In fact, you know what the last thing he asked me to do was, before he left? He asked me to look after you. And I promised that I would, whether you liked it or not. The fact that you think you don't need looking out for is a moot point. Mycroft asked me sincerely, when he was willingly going off to god knows where to protect you I might add, and I agreed. So go ahead. Be as hateful as you want. Shut me out, cut me off, I'm still going to follow you around and keep your arse out of trouble. Not just because I like you, but for your brother, because he can't right now. At least one of us will be respecting his wishes. So please understand you'll not get any information to help fuel another mad revenge quest from me."

Piece spoken, Greg rolled back on his side with a grunt that he just barely couldn't contain. The painkillers were nice, but the wound he received was still demanding attention, though certainly much less than before. But it had quieted enough that he could finally get some badly needed sleep. Lestrade's eyes were practically burning; lids leaden and nearly impossible to keep open. He fumbled around on the bed for his mobile so he could send a text to Anthea, but his fingers felt oddly thick and slow. God he was tired. It was like the last of his strength had left him with the last of his words to Sherlock. The dull throb in his side had quieted even more, just over the last few minutes. Yes, it was definitely time to sleep. One last request, and he could drift off and be blissfully numb to the entire impossibly fucked up situation of events. Not having to be awake and torment himself with thoughts of Mycroft sounded lovely. Though he would want to be awake when Mycroft came out of it. _**If**_ Mycroft came out of it. No, _**when**_. Because he had to. With everything else that had happened they deserved that much, at least. For Mycroft to live.

"Hey, I know you hate me, but make sure they wake me up when your brother wakes up, ok?" he managed to grumble out, before finally letting the warm blanket of opiates wrap around him completely, cutting off the pain in his side, the sound of the monitors beeping all around them, and the chatter in his head. He was aware enough to enjoy the blissful quiet for just a few seconds before surrendering completely and letting sleep take him.

\----------------------------

For once in his life, Sherlock didn't have anything to say. He didn't even know what to think. Some part of his brain was hearing and processing Greg's words, but the rest was focused on one singular thought, a horrible idea that had been planted in his mind and now wouldn't leave him be; Mycroft had tried to kill himself. His independent, strong-willed, stalwart older brother had tried to kill himself. It didn't make sense. There was no logic in that, no thread of rational thought he could find, no tether that would tie him back down to earth and show him that Mycroft had done this for some other reason, as a diversion, as an escape tactic, as--as something other than this!

_But,_ he bitterly reminded himself, _there is a rational thought._ Mycroft had seen the situation he was in after sleeping with Neil again, had calculated all of the factors and variables together, and had decided that the only solution was to kill himself. Why, though? Why would that be the only solution, why would Mycroft even consider it to be a solution, why would it cross his mind, why, why, why??? Sherlock felt like banging his head against the wall and settled for biting his bottom lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. This wasn't the Mycroft he knew. This wasn't the government official who had worked from his hospital bed after a near fatal car accident, who had fought his brother every painful step of the way to get him clean and sober, who had been a force of nature in Sherlock's life since they were kids. This was a lot more like the Mycroft from when Sherlock was eleven and twelve, a Uni student who had faded away to a shadow of himself in the space of just a few months and had remained that way for two years, withdrawing into himself in a way that not even Sherlock could reach. That Mycroft was like a stranger to Sherlock, and he was a hell of a lot more dangerous because he was unpredictable. And the evidence of that was in the hospital bed across the room.

Distantly, Sherlock recognized that Lestrade was basically telling him to stop being a twat and trying to guilt him into behaving by mentioning that Mycroft had been the one to order them not to give him any information. But the actual meaning behind his words wasn't going through at the moment, it just wouldn't process in Sherlock's consciousness currently because his thoughts kept circling back around to Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft. Suicide. Painkillers. Neil Gibson. God, he would kill for a cigarette at the moment, or even just a nicotine patch. Or two. Or three. Probably three at least. Yes, definitely three, though he doubted that there was any number of patches that could make him understand why his brother had decided to take his own life. Obviously it was an emotional decision, and he was out of his depth in that area. He'd never understood emotions, and just barely understood Mycroft a little bit better. But this? No, no, he couldn't understand this.

Eventually Greg stopped talking, or at least he must have because when Sherlock came out of his cerebral coma, the DI was turned away and fast asleep, in a rather deep sleep if Sherlock was judging correctly and he always judged correctly. It took him a minute to realize that something had actually roused him from his state; the steady tapping of the keyboard on a phone, gentle, subtle clicks that could have been ignored if the room wasn't completely silent. He was unsurprised to see Anthea sitting in the chair by Mycroft's bed, her eyes on her mobile as she typed away, doing whatever it was that she had to do now that Mycroft was recovered. More work, it seemed, no doubt picking up the slack caused by Mycroft's absence and explaining the cleanest, white-washed version of the story that she could to keep the political wolves at bay.

Her eyes didn't lift from her phone when Sherlock said in a low drawl, "I thought you would have better things to do with your time than keep watch over my brother's bedside. It's touching, really, considering it was the negligence of your team that put him there. Tell me, do you think he tried to kill himself partially in an effort to get away from the sheer ineptitude shown on their part? Yourself included, of course."

Anthea chose not to respond immediately, typing away steadily as if she hadn't even heard him, and Sherlock kept his gaze trained on Mycroft's bed, his eyes only once flicking over to look for a reaction. "Lestrade told me Mycroft ordered you not to tell me anything," Sherlock said after a minute, changing tact. She appeared to be in between texts at the moment, eyes scanning the screen as if she was reading, but her words were sharp and clear when she spoke, indicating she had been listening closely.

"Mycroft ordered us both to make sure we didn't have a repeat of the previous incident," she replied, before closing her lips again and continuing to type. There was a hushed silence between them, then; "So stop acting like a child."

"I'm not acting like a child," Sherlock responded, instantly bristling, and she raised her eyes long enough to give him a look of wry disbelief, one slim brow arched, before her face went back to its blank default expression as her eyes returned to the screen. "You both decided to hide something from me, and I don't care what my brother said, Lestrade shouldn't even be involved--"

"Oh come off it! You know as well as I do that Lestrade's fancied your brother for awhile and your brother was actually having a good time with him before this whole mess happened. He was by Mycroft's side the entire time, he's the only reason Mycroft has a bullet in the arm instead of in the heart. He stayed with him, protected him, and then did everything he could to prevent Mycroft from leaving and going to Neil, which, I will remind you, he did to save your sorry hide because that's what your brother does." Sherlock was staring at Anthea, the PA having given that entire speech without having looked up, the most personal and the longest speech he'd ever heard her give. She rarely talked to him directly--the accident aside--because usually Mycroft was there as a buffer and she was too busy watching their tennis match of wits to try to admonish him for his behavior. Besides, Mycroft was really the only one who could reign his brother in.

They lapsed into silence again, Sherlock slowly calming again, his raised hackles going back to a resting state. Getting upset about this wasn't going to help anything, even though he wanted to snap at Anthea that she didn't understand his brother as well as he did and whatever she said, it still wouldn't be an excuse for having lied to him about Mycroft's overdose.

"He tried to kill himself." It wasn't a question, just a statement, but that didn't matter because Anthea didn't answer anyway. She resumed typing, a solid, even flow only occasionally interrupted by a message she had to read before typing. She looked out of place there, sitting in a hospital chair, perched in it with her slim legs crossed as if this was just another office chair or expensive car seat, by the side of a currently unconscious employer who had just tried to OD after his own team failed to find him in time. "Lestrade wants to be woken when Mycroft is awake, as do I. Can I entrust you with that?"

She looked up from the phone, eyebrows raised. "You're actually going to sleep?" she asked, and he nodded. Confusion clouded her features for a moment before it cleared and she nodded, something soft and disgustingly sentimental in her gaze. There was no reason to have that look, even though she realized Sherlock was going to sleep for his brother's sake, not for his own. The detective curled onto his side in a slight huff, irritated by everyone around him and still trying to process everything from the day. He wasn't tired in the least, but he found that as soon as he closed his eyes and concentrated on nothing at all, he could sleep.

\----------------------------

Anthea was left in a hospital room with three different men unconscious in the beds around her, all of them giving her a headache for different reasons. Sherlock, at least, had calmed down enough to sleep, which Mycroft could appreciate when he woke up, and Greg had finally succumbed to the exhaustion that had been visible every time Anthea saw him. And Mycroft...well, Mycroft was in a self-induced coma for the time being, but the doctors had faith that he would wake up. At least, that's what they told Anthea. Whether or not that was true was an entirely different question, and one she wasn't sure she wanted an answer to.

But, she got the answer she wanted. After quite a while of sitting patiently in the silent room, trying to get some work done and mostly succeeding, Mycroft began to stir. Not much, mind you, just a little, eyes flickering behind their lids as if they were trying to open, or like he was having a nightmare. Either way, she looked up from her mobile for a minute, calculating, and then went to Greg's bed to wake him. She'd catch hell from Sherlock if he realized she'd woken up Greg first, but she knew that if Mycroft really was waking up, it would be best to give him and the DI a few minutes alone without Sherlock's angry interjections to interrupt them.

But Greg wouldn't wake up. At first, she thought it was just a deep sleep, brought on by the drugs in his system and the exhaustion from the day, but it took her a minute to realize that his heartrate and breathing had slowed significantly as well, beyond the point that they usually did from sleep. The difference was obvious when just comparing Sherlock's vitals with Greg's; Sherlock's had slowed as well, but not nearly as much as Greg's, and he still appeared to have healthy and normal breathing patterns. Something was wrong here, something she didn't know and couldn't sort out on her own, and it only took a second of consideration before she pressed the call button on Greg's bed.

\----------------------------

Greg roused slightly as he heard the clacking of heels on the tile of the hospital floor, though for the life of him he couldn't actually seem to wake enough to open his eyes. He recognized the clear, firm voice that filled the room, and it filled him with an immense sense of relief. Anthea. Wonderful, capable, amazing Anthea. Anthea who was going to be given many, many flowers. The DI tried to at least give a smile in greeting, even if he couldn't seem to wake up fully he wanted the lovely PA to know that her being present was a great comfort to him. Lestrade doubted he had much success; all his muscles felt strangely wrung out. Like he had been running for miles and miles. Even the distinct voices of Anthea and Sherlock, who had started conversing with each other, sounded muddled and odd, almost as if Greg was hearing them from the bottom of some great body of water. Unbelievably exhausted, he drifted in and out of unconsciousness as he listened to a conversation that he couldn't quite understand. He caught a few words here and there, but not enough to make much sense of anything. In fact, even trying to make sense of them exhausted him, and before he could spare another thought he was slipping back into the thickness of sleep.

When he woke again there was nothing but the steady clack of fingernails on glass that had to be Anthea typing away at her phone. Struggling against himself, he tried to open his eyes, or mouth, or something. To do anything to let her know he was awake. Talking with her before Mycroft woke would be a very, very good idea. But the harder he tried to pull himself out of it, the heavier his chest felt. Like he was very slowly being crushed. All he could take were slow, shallow breaths, no matter how panicked he became. It was then that he realized that something was not quite right. Gathering what scraps of will he could, the DI struggled to focus, trying with everything he had to move his hand. Nothing happened. Again, he tried. Still no response. The only thing that happened was that his chest felt somehow heavier, as if someone or something was pushing down against it. Not enough to hurt or crush, but enough to somehow strangle the breath out of him. Greg struggled against the thick weight pulling him down, but he not only failed to rouse himself, he also succeeded in tiring himself to the point where consciousness slipped away yet again.

There was no way for Lestrade to tell how long he had been out for. It could have been minutes, or months. His mouth felt dry and his tongue was thick. A thick, gauzy feeling wrapped itself around his brain as he struggled to recognize something, anything about his surroundings. Vaguely, he was aware of another person in the room. Another woman, speaking in soothing tones. He couldn't quite get his brain to wrap around the exact words, but tone told him everything he needed to know. Whoever it was, for whatever reason, was trying to convince Anthea that his being unable to wake up was normal. Or at least nothing to be concerned about. No. No no no no so not true. The weight on his chest kept increasing, making breathing an exhausting experience. Frantic to tell them that no, something **was** wrong, Lestrade managed to pull himself to the very edge of consciousness, only to have it frustratingly slip away from him again. As he drifted away again, a single thread of thoughts ran through his mind.

_Oh god. I'm going to die.  And Mycroft... I can't... I won't..._

Then there was nothing. Just darkness, interrupted by the occasional beep that reached him through the cottony cocoon surrounding him. Then, without warning or transition, he woke. Anthea was leaning over his bed, brown eyes fixed on her mobile as always. The room seemed washed out, everything but the PA watery and indistinct. Without looking at him she gave a small, pitying smile. "I'm sorry Gregory, but Mycroft has decided that your services are no longer necessary."

No, it wasn't Anthea next to him, it was Sherlock. "I don't want your _**help**_ , Lestrade," he growled. "You couldn't keep me safe, and look what happened. Why should you get another chance? This really is what's better for both of us." One broad hand clapped itself over the DI's nose and mouth, and Lestrade couldn't even struggle to free himself. He just stared into sage green eyes as the gazed down at him with derision, vision blackening at the edges as his breath stilled in his chest.

No, it wasn't Sherlock who was smothering him, it was Mycroft. Unlike his brother, the politician wasn't even looking at him. He just sat at the edge of the bed in his hospital gown, one hand clasped over the DI's nose and mouth while the fingers of the other ran along the line of lurid purple bruises in an reverent manner. "I'm sorry, Gregory. I just despise complications, is all."

No, it wasn't Mycroft, it was Anthea again. And she wasn't trying to smother him, she was shaking him. Gently at first, then with more gusto. Far from her previous detached self she was looking at him with an almost shocking amount of concern as she insisted that he do something, but Greg couldn't quite make out the words. He tried to tell her that it was going to be fine, everything was going to be fine, but the words got garbled

No, it wasn't Anthea. It was Neil. And he wasn't shaking him to rouse him. The sinister looking man was shaking him because he was trying to throttle him, strong hands wrapped around the DI's throat. "Dying of an OD just like your junkie brother. Fitting." Greg tried to fight off his attacker, but all he managed was a feeble thrash. A fiery wave of hate coursed through him and he pushed back against both Neil and the smothering sensation, determined that if he was going to die anyway he would drag Neil down with him. But before he could make a move his body shuddered and convulsed, and a fit of coughs wracked him and stole his remaining breath away.

Sputtering and coughing, Lestrade snapped back to wakefulness. Breathing still felt difficult, and his head still felt wrapped in cotton but it was more akin to the soft, warm haziness he had experienced during his disagreement with Sherlock. At least his senses seemed to be mostly working, if a bit dulled. His eyes flickered frantically around the room until they came to rest on Anthea at his bedside. God. Whatever had happened before must have been some sort of dream, a drug induced nightmare, because she looked quite rattled. Lestrade spared a moment to wonder exactly what it was that he might have done in his sleep to cause her such stress, when his brain finally kicked into gear and reminded him that there was another much more important reason that she could look so very worried.

"Oh god. Anthea...." Greg found his voice was cracked and dry, the words thick and difficult to get out but he struggled through them anyway, desperation for the answer driving him through the discomfort of speaking. "Mycroft. Is he awake yet? Is he ok?"

\----------------------------

The nurse that answered the call to Greg's side was either criminally stupid, or just a criminal. Anthea listened very calmly as the kindly-looking woman explained to her that this was perfectly normal, that it was alright that Greg wasn't waking up, that it was just the drugs taking effect in combination with the toll of his injuries. She smiled and nodded at all the right places, playing the part of an initially distraught but then pacified concerned friend, and waited until she was sure the woman was all the way down the hallway before telling the men guarding the door that that woman was not to be allowed in this room again and ordering other team members to check surveillance footage of her and start doing a background check. In the meantime, she called another doctor--a trusted doctor--into the room to take a look at Greg.

A morphine overdose. Ah, how very clever. Gibson's work, no doubt, though she wasn't sure whether it had been done to finish Greg off for the sake of the criminal enterprise or out of some sort of psychopathic possessive behavior towards Mycroft. Kill his allies, leave him with no one left to run to but Neil. But no, Sherlock hadn't had a drip administered so Anthea was left to assume Neil was just covering his tracks, ensuring that Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade would not be able to assist with the investigation. It was the perfect method, too, a slow death that Greg couldn't protest against and that would be delivered over time in a way that nearly assured his death before it was discovered. Anthea was lucky that she had been trying to wake up Greg, otherwise it might not have been discovered at all. Not until Greg was already gone.

Once the doctor had cleared everything and left again, she paced the room for a minute while she typed, a restless energy in her legs as she waited to see who would wake up first; Sherlock, Greg, or Mycroft. Sherlock was the only one she wanted to sleep for much longer, but she wasn't sure whether she wanted Greg or Mycroft to wake up first. Probably Greg, since she could properly prepare him for talking to Mycroft when her employer woke up. Mycroft, who kept stirring as if about to wake and then falling back into his deep sleep, barely moving in his bed. She finally took up residence in the chair next to Greg, betting that he would be the most likely to wake up first. She was rewarded a while later when Greg woke up coughing and gasping for air, bringing the full weight of Anthea's concerned gaze up from her mobile. Bless Greg. His first thought was for Mycroft, always for Mycroft, even though he had once again nearly died.

Anthea put her phone down and poured a cup of water for Greg, handing it to him to drink before she spoke. Once he was done and the empty cup was back on the nightstand, she smiled slightly, tiredly at him. It had been hours since she slept, over a day. "It's alright, Greg," were the first words out of her mouth, her voice as soothing as she could manage. "Mycroft's been unconscious since he was recovered, but he's been stirring for the past half hour or so, so he'll hopefully regain consciousness soon. He's in stable condition and the doctors think he's going to recover completely, but that's only physically. Truth be told, I have no idea what his mental state is going to be like when he wakes up."

She sighed slightly, leaning back in her chair again. "As for you, in the interest of full disclosure I have to tell you that a morphine drip was given to you that would have caused a prolonged overdose. My team has already caught the person responsible and is working on tracing it back to Neil, but in the meantime you're safe here because the team has explicit instructions not to let anyone who I haven't approved into the room, even medical personnel. So everything is under control for the time being." She tried to offer him a reassuring smile, but it came out more worn than anything. She was tired, things kept going wrong, and waiting for Mycroft to wake up was fraying her nerves. Mycroft owed her a vacation after this, but even as the thought crossed her mind she knew it was impossible. She had to be there for every step of his recovery, there was no way she could leave him alone at a time like this. No, she would stay and look after him as she always did, as she would always do. And she'd help Greg to help Mycroft, if she could.

"I figured it would be best for us to talk a little before Mycroft wakes up, as I'm sure you have some questions on your mind as to what happened. Most of them will have to wait for Mycroft himself; I simply don't have all of the information you're looking for. These are all the facts that I know: a few hours ago we received the video of Mycroft and Neil, which, as our tech team was unable to trace it, was given to Sherlock. I'm not quite sure how, but somehow he gleaned Mycroft's location from it and sent the address to me. We managed to get one of our team members, posing as a doctor for the trafficking ring, into the building. She's the one who found out Mycroft had overdosed. We know Neil called in the doctor, so he was fully intending to keep Mycroft alive and we can't consider attempted murder as a charge against him."

"We then sent in a recovery team which picked up Mycroft for medical treatment and arrested Neil and anyone else present on suspicion of kidnapping and blackmail. Neil is currently being held in NSY for the standard 24 hour holding period. Essentially, whether or not he's held for longer is dependent on Mycroft waking up and testifying against him about the kidnapping and blackmail. Otherwise, they have no evidence against him and by the time Sherlock is well enough to get out of the hospital and start building a case again, Neil will already be long gone." She paused, taking a deep breath as she looked at Greg, slim brows furrowing over her brown eyes. "And if Neil disappears, there's a chance Mycroft might disappear with him."

\----------------------------

The lingering panic that Greg felt upon waking subsided with Anthea's reassurance that Mycroft, while still unconscious, was still stable. Greg couldn't bring himself to think of Mycroft using the word 'ok'. He was far from ok; he had been shot, kidnapped, and... other things by a psychotic stalker ex who seemed to think that pushing the politician into suicide was a great way of trying to start up their relationship again. Fucking Neil fucking Gibson. Sherlock's solution to that particular problem seemed to be growing more attractive minute by minute. Lestrade pushed the thought out of his head, or at least further towards the back. The younger Holmes brother was suspiciously quiet, and while she handed him a much needed glass of water the DI cast a surreptitious glance around Anthea's slender shoulder to the other bed.

Sherlock seemed fine, on his side, breathing steady. Sleeping then. How very, very strange. God only knew what kind of miracle worker the petite PA was if she managed to get the detective to do anything resembling rest. The seemingly infinite number of miracles at her disposal didn't appear to apply to Mycroft, however. Greg couldn't suppress a wince as he caught a glimpse of the politician's prone form in the bed next to his. Keeping big brother between the DI and the detective was a good move; Sherlock would be less inclined (Greg hoped) to bicker with him if he had to do it over his brother's unconscious form. Greg colored a bit when he realized that Anthea must have witnessed his spat with the younger Holmes. Yes, the man had been acting like a bit of a twat, but as he so rightly stated at the time his only brother had been shot, kidnapped, and rendered unconscious. The DI knew he needn't have snapped at the younger man like that, even if his words held more resignation than hurt. An apology was definitely in order for later.

Once he had finished with his drink Anthea collected the glass with her perfectly manicured fingernails, setting it on the nightstand before settling back into her seat between the DI and her boss. She looked just a little ragged around the edges, but otherwise appeared to be holding up against the exhaustion of the past two days with a level of endurance that Greg envied. The petite brunette comforted him a bit, bringing him up to speed on Mycroft's physical condition before letting him know that his rather intense dreams were the result of a morphine drip, the dosage of which had been enough to eventually kill him if given enough time.

"Oh," was all he managed to get out, his tone surprisingly mild even to his own ears. "Morphine. That explains the dreams, and the difficulty waking up. Well, I suppose they get points for persistence." All in all it was better than being shot at, Greg supposed, and they at least didn't seem to have done anything to hurt Sherlock this time. Anthea gave him a truly pitying look before starting on a factual, almost clinical rundown of what was known about Mycroft's time in captivity.

Ok, so he had all the facts. Normally that was a good thing. But in this instance the facts felt utterly woefully inadequate. There was nothing at all to tell him about Mycroft's state of mind, other than what he had done to himself. Some small part of Greg still held out hope that it was a ploy of some sort, a carefully calculated attempt to get himself out of his imprisonment and away from Neil. The idea was hard to hold onto, though, when the rest of the facts came into play. Mycroft hadn't been faking any of his symptoms; he was indeed unconscious and had remained so since his arrival at the hospital. That alone told the DI that he had taken more medication than strictly necessary to fake his attempt; it had been genuine. The thought hooked terrible talons into Greg's heart and pulled. He could very nearly feel it come to pieces under the stress of the idea. This politician was always so unflappable, so very stalwart and constant; the idea of him being so distraught, so hopeless that death had seemed like the only option chilled Greg to his very core. What could he do in the face of despair like that? He suppressed a small shiver, turning to Anthea and giving a small, tired smile.

"Thanks, yeah. I guess that covers most of it. The most important question will be how he's feeling... and well... neither of us are going to have the answer to that." He gave a grumbling sort of sigh, unconsciously raking a still somewhat shaky hand through his hair. "Good lord. Every one of you lot is lucky I've already gone grey."

"So. Questions. Well, I guess the most important one I have for you, since you've been through him with these types of things before, is whether or not to take a passive approach. I don't mean that I'd try dragging anything out of him that he didn't want to talk about; I'm certainly not going to interrogate him. What happened is his business. The details don't much matter. Their impact on him does. I guess what I mean to say is should I let him come to me first, or should I um... offer my assistance, such as it is?"

"And the other question I have is... should I even be doing this? I mean, we've known each other for a couple of years now. I suppose I've fancied him quite a bit for most of that time, without really being aware of it. We had a lovely date, until the gunfire started. And I want to help, God knows I want to help. But... ah. Well. I mean--”

"Fuck. I don't even know what I'm trying to say here. Look, any tips you have would be more than appreciated; topics to avoid, triggers he might have. But at this point it's really just a matter of wait-and-see, isn't it?" His voice sounded a bit choked, the full effect of his words caught in his throat. Wait and see. Wait and see if the tentative connection they had formed over a pint had been shattered by the events of the last 48 hours. Wait and see if Mycroft was going to put forward a statement to NSY that would allow Neil to be held and charged for the crimes he had committed against him. Wait and see if he was going to just disappear, to go off with some emotionally and physically abusive psychopath because whatever Neil had done to him had undone years of progress and hard work.

Wait and see. There wasn't anything else for it. So quietly, with enough patience as he could muster around the fuzzyheadedness and deep worry gnawing at his gut, Gregory Lestrade gave Anthea a worried look, and he waited.

\----------------------------

Anthea could see Greg was on the edge of the border between anxiety and desperation, a thin line that he could accidentally slip over with just the slightest provocation. God, she hoped Mycroft wouldn't be the push to send him over the edge. The last thing she wanted was to have to drag the DI into this mess that would only emotionally damage him more and enlarge the already mile wide wounds the past 48 hours had made on his psyche. But it was more than likely that Greg would actually be able to get through to Mycroft, force the politician to listen and accept help even if it was the last thing he wanted.

She put her hand on the DI's for a moment, smiling at him in a way that she hoped expressed the full force of her sympathy. A smile that said, 'trust me, I'm just as worried as you are, but it'll be alright'. Then she removed her hand, leaning back in her chair again with a soft sigh. Right. Greg wanted to know the best approach for taking care of Mycroft. She realized with a start that he had used the word passive, and instantly sat up a little straighter in her chair.

"Being passive is probably the worst approach you could take with Mycroft," she said, her voice clear and just a touch firm. This was one thing she knew very well, almost painfully well. "That's giving him what he wants; letting him suffer by himself and wrestle with his demons alone. If you give him the option, he will shut himself away and never seek help on his own. You have to force him to accept it, fight him every step of the way, and even then you might be disappointed with how little progress you make. But you can't be discouraged by that. Even if it may seem like you're not making any progress, you probably have more of an effect that you know. Mycroft excels at hiding exactly how much better he's getting, unfortunately. He's...a puzzle. A difficult one that is entirely worth it if you can solve it."

She took a deep breath, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. "As to whether or not you should be involved, that's entirely up to you, Greg. I understand that you may be hesitant about it and you may think you have no right to be involved, Sherlock certainly thinks so. But trust me, you have more of an influence on Mycroft than you know or he would like to admit. I think you really can help him, especially by showing him that there are much better options for him out there than Neil." She bit her bottom lip for a second, not wanting to speak the words that were coming next. She had faith in Greg, but she still had to say it.

"Of course, I can't ask you to become involved. This isn't really your battle, and it's unfair of me to drag you into something that will most likely exhaust and discourage you. This is going to be a fight, Greg, an exhausting, emotional, drawn out fight to help him recover. If you can't handle that, I'd rather you tell me now so I'm prepared to deal with him on my own. I won't blame you for it, it won't be the first time people have wanted to help but found themselves unable to, but I want to know now. Mycroft is extremely delicate at the moment. It wouldn't do to have him latch onto you as a point of stability during recovery only to lose you halfway through.

"With his suicide attempt, one false move in his recovery process might honestly kill him. I'll do my best to protect him from himself, but we'll see. So," she said, taking a deep breath and running her fingers through some of her brown hair, "if you do decide to help him still, we'll have to be very careful. The first few days will be critical, as when he wakes up he's going to be surprised, distraught, and most likely wrecked. Either he'll hold off for a little while and try to pacify us until Neil gets out, or he'll immediately try to go to him. That's my best guess, at least. I don't know why he made his attempt, but if he's that desperate, it's most likely that he's fallen completely back into his old habits, eating disorder and self loathing included. So Neil will look like a great option compared to a grueling recovery process alongside people he genuinely cares about, who will only serve to remind him of why he went with Neil in the first place."

She huffed out a breath, just talking about Mycroft's presumed emotional state both exhausting and frustrating her. She would never understand why somebody so brilliant, so far removed from the persona of a victim, would allow himself to be completely taken apart like this by one man. The day that Mycroft had met with Neil one final time had seemed like the end of it, up until the accident. That was when Anthea started gathering files on Neil Gibson, convinced the man was a cross between a ghost and a predator, and certainly a permanent force in the politician's life. She only hoped Greg was also a permanent force, but a much better one for Mycroft. The man couldn't stand to have his heart broken again.

\----------------------------

Greg listened quietly as Anthea calmly but firmly explained to him that no, taking a passive approach was not the best way of handling Mycroft upon his waking. Well, that was about what he expected, really. Mycroft didn't seem the type to open up about anything, really. He certainly hadn't in the past two years that the DI had known him, save for the bit that they shared on the way to and at the pub. Lestrade's lips compressed into a thin line, grim look of determination easily settling onto his face. God knew it was one he wore often. Brown eyes focused on the petite PA intensely, searching her face and demeanor for any additional information that she might be holding back as she gave him a very thorough rundown.

Surprisingly, there didn't appear to be anything lingering beneath the surface. That meant Anthea was either an exceptionally good liar (very likely, considering her employer), or that she was trusting Greg with the entire truth. Given the subject matter, the DI was inclined to believe the latter option more. At this point she didn't have anything to gain from holding information back; Anthea was certainly pouring all of herself into caring for Mycroft and was being rather brutally honest with Lestrade in the process. It was something he truly appreciated. Best not to sugar-coat things. He could feel his silver brows knit together as a familiar sort of tension washed over him; scrutinizing every detail of what the PA said and turning it over in his mind before filing it away for future use.

He gave a broad, genuine smile when the petite brunette described her boss as a difficult puzzle worth solving. How very true. Momentarily his mind wandered to the car ride to their almost-not-quite date at the pub. Musicals and Dr. Frankenstein; the unexpected and delightful. What lay underneath the surface of that too-polite smile? Lestrade thought he had gotten a glimpse. Just a taste. Bone deep exhaustion and exceptional wit. A stunning level of emotional intelligence. An unfaltering love for a brother that thwarted his attempts of assistance at every turn. The warm feeling he got in the pit of his stomach when Mycroft placed his hand on Greg's knee, the way that their touches had lingered longer than strictly necessary.

Then they got to the second question Lestrade had, involving his... well... his involvement in Mycroft's recovery. The cold, clenched fingers that seemed to have permanently wrapped themselves around his heart loosened some as Anthea explained that she very much thought he was good for Mycroft.

"Anthea," he said as gently as he could, offering her a wan smile. "I'd already decided to see this through, no matter what the outcome. So please, don't worry about me running off as soon as things get difficult. I've navigated difficult, delicate situations with people before. And," he said, voice tightening just a hair, "I know how dangerous it can be to abandon someone in the middle of a recovery process. Or, recovery aside, if they've come to depend on you as their solid ground." Suddenly, wheels started to turn in his head, putting together bits and pieces of information gleaned over the past 48 hours. Half on evidence, half on a rather strong hunch, he reached an interesting conclusion.

"Oh. Of course," he muttered out in a monotone as his brain very quickly. "Aren't you quite the matchmaker?" One slim brown brow raised in query, and Lestrade answered with a wry smile before answering.

"You knew. You would have reviewed my file once Sherlock started working with me, especially because I know now that Mycroft didn't. So you read my file, which means you would have known about Danny. Seen the similarities between our situations. Maybe even encouraged Mycroft to let his brother keep working with me. I got your seal of approval, didn't I?" Lestrade offered the PA a sly smile, enjoying watching her shift oh-so-slightly in her seat. Greg knew he was no Holmes when it came to deductions, but he knew that he certainly didn't get to be a Detective Inspector based on his looks.

"I bet you even insisted that Mycroft take some of the updates on Sherlock's well being personally, just to get us in the same room." A laugh built in his chest until it finally freed itself. Fortunately Greg managed to transmute it into a chuckle. The last thing he or Anthea needed was Sherlock waking up and weighing in on their conversation. Though, the thought of the look on the detective's face as he deduced the maneuverings Anthea to set Greg and her boss up gave him another bout of chuckles. Once his laughter subsided, Greg turned back to the slightly confused, concerned PA.

"Oh poor Anthea, we must have been driving you mad for the past two years. Waiting for one of us to finally make a move." The slender brunette gave Greg a slightly worried look, and opened her mouth as if to start apologizing but the DI quickly interjected, not wanting her to mistake his recognition of her maneuverings for anger or suspicion. Quite the opposite in fact.

"No, no," he soothed, giving a genuine grin. "I appreciate it. I really do think Mycroft is an extraordinary man. I'm beyond flattered that you think I'm good enough for him. And though I haven't exactly been conscious of it, I've been head over heels for the complicated, posh bastard for quite some time."

"So, I suppose he's stuck with me. You both are. I can't help it; that's how I fall. Hard and fast," he explained, trying his damndest to hide the lingering sadness that still swirled in his chest. At least their sort-of-date made a bit more sense now. Of course Mycroft was interested in him. It made perfect sense, given that it sounded like the bulk of his relationship experience was with a genuine psychopath. Greg certainly had his laundry list of faults, but he was damn sure that being an abusive, insane criminal wasn't on there anywhere. The good news was that it would be difficult for Greg to be worse for him than Neil had been. The bad news, the news that sent a sharp pang of pain spearing through his heart, was that it made the outcome he feared the worst even more likely; that Mycroft, once recovered, would easily be able to find someone better and move on. Not that it changed his determination at all. He had already determined that no matter what, Mycroft had his complete and total support in every possible way. And again, better that Greg get his heart broken than Mycroft.  If that was even how it happened.  However grim things looked, Greg found that the hope of some sort of 'happily ever after' couldn't be entirely extinguished.  It burned in the back of his mind like a memorial flame, lending just a bit of light to his eyes and sincerity to his words.

"So I'm in this. For good or ill, as long as he needs me." _As long as he wants me. Which given that he may try running straight back to Neil fucking Gibson may not be all that long anyway. Still, he'll have to go through me to get away, even if I have to bodily hold him down to keep him from running off._ A swell of affection laced with sadness swelled in his chest, and Lestrade risked a glance over at the next bed. Mycroft was still out, but at this point it looked more like he was sleeping than unconscious. His skin, while still pallid, had the barest touches of color returning.

"I'll be as careful as I can be, as proactive as I need to be, and no matter what, I’m not going to change my mind." he said gravely, chestnut eyes fixed on Mycroft as the man stirred slightly in his sleep. "So please don't worry; I'll be sticking around."

\----------------------------

It soothed Anthea's nerves quite a bit to hear Greg confirm that he was going to be there for every step of Mycroft's recovery, that he was willing to stick it out and put in the work needed to restore the politician to his former state, if that was even possible at this point. She had expected that answer from him, but caution had told her to make the situation painfully clear to him so he would have no illusions about it. Greg couldn't go into this expecting to be the white knight who swept Mycroft off his feet and made everything better for him; that just wasn't possible and it certainly wasn't best for Mycroft. The last thing Mycroft needed was to move from one dependent relationship to another even if Greg was a much better person for him to depend on.

No, Mycroft needed someone safe and stable to lean on, not depend on. Someone who could remind him that better things existed outside of Neil, and that he deserved those better things. That this toxic relationship they had was not the best he could do. That he didn't have to resign himself to a life with Neil that wouldn't be much of a life at all. That he could get better. And Anthea was sure Greg could help do that. She had always supported him as an option for Mycroft because he was genuinely a good influence. She'd seen the icy shell surrounding her employer slowly start to melt in Greg's company, until finally, _finally_ , after two years of waiting, they went on a date. And it had apparently been a damn good date before the firing started. It had made her so hopeful for the future, as she'd seen it as a sign that Mycroft was moving away from the messiness of his past and onto a brighter future.

Sure, the politician had dated since Neil, but nothing that lasted very long. Anthea hadn't been privy to all the details of the relationships, but there seemed to be a common theme; Mycroft shut people out, so eventually they stopped bothering to pry. It was heartbreaking, in a way, when she considered the fact that Mycroft likely shut people out so heavily because he'd opened himself up to Neil and Neil had used it as an opportunity to bend him to his implacable and demanding will and twist him into a shape more suited to his desires. There was a deep type of sickness in that relationship that Anthea couldn't stand to think about, even though her knowledge of it barely scratched the surface of Mycroft's years with Neil.

But Greg. Greg was different. She'd approved of Greg at the start, and she hadn't expected him to figure that out, but here he was, calling her a matchmaker and laying out the entire path she'd taken in an attempt to get the two of them slowly closer together. She opened her mouth to apologize, worried that perhaps Greg would resent her maneuvering like Mycroft would have, but he cut her off by explaining that he actually appreciated it. Oh, wonderful, sweet Greg. Such a genuinely good guy. It was so good to finally hear the admission from Greg's own mouth that he had feelings for the politician and had had them for quite some time. Her sense of victory, however, was diminished by the somber note the DI's voice took as he expressed that he was, without a doubt, going to stay by Mycroft's side through all of this.

She offered him a small, sympathetic smile, one of many that she'd bestowed upon him during the conversation. Greg just really made her empathetic side come out in full force. "Really, I'm very glad to hear that," she said, noting the way Greg's eyes seemed fixed on Mycroft's prone form, calculating and cataloguing every twitch of his muscles. "I didn't doubt your resolve, I just have to take as many precautions as I can because...well, because it's Mycroft. I'm responsible for his care."

"And yes, you were quite correct, I have been trying to arrange things for the past couple of years. Honestly, if the two of you weren't so absurdly stubborn it would have worked much sooner. At least you admit that something was going on, I'm sure Mycroft was denying he felt anything up until the moment he deduced that you did. He never really goes for anything romance wise unless he knows the other person likes him. It's for security, I suppose..." _Or insecurity_ , her mind helpfully chimed in. A remnant from his time with Neil. Jesus.

She glanced over at the politician again, another statement on her lips that she entirely forgot when she saw blue eyes flutter open. And stay open. She waited one, two, three breaths, expecting them to slip shut again, but they stayed open, though his eyelids fluttered in a way that spoke of lingering drowsiness and confusion, confirmed by the way his eyes were rolling around the room as if unsure where to fix their gaze. Mycroft was actually, legitimately awake. Before Mycroft could completely regain his surroundings and bearings, she laid a hand on Greg's arm, said, "Text me when you want me to come back or if Sherlock wakes up." Then she stood up and slipped out of the room, praying that she was making the right choice by letting Greg handle Mycroft first.

\----------------------------

It was a blessedly dreamless sleep. Mycroft had no sense of time passing, had no sense of anything outside himself whatsoever. At points he was vaguely conscious and aware of a high, floating sensation, like he was a balloon buoyed by a strong breeze away from his body, one cut away from being completely untethered. But that would easily slip into blackness again, the lovely dreamless place that his mind could curl up in and finally get some rest. There were no thoughts there, no worries, no concerns. Just nothingness. And it was lovely.

Until his body started stirring again, his brain slipping in and out and sending out brief, incoherent snippets of thought every time it had the opportunity. He was just getting flashes, glimpses of the outside world, but everything felt muted and distant still, muffled voices and distorted light. When he did finally manage to open his eyes, it was not a sudden break into consciousness. His brain struggled to catch up with his eyes, which were trying to take in as much information as possible even while they seemed unable to keep still in their sockets. Apparently his lungs thought his eyes had the right idea because they stuttered into action to take shorter breaths, the deeper, more peaceful breathing of his sleep gone.

Well, really it had been less sleep and more like a coma, but he wasn't concerned with the classification at the moment. Really, he wasn't concerned with anything at the moment. Just breathing and blinking seemed to be too much for his body to handle. He still couldn't hear properly, though there were murmurs around him, voices about as clear as a conversation heard through a wall. And light. There was plenty of light, florescent fixtures above him that made his eyes blink open and shut, fluttering like butterfly wings pinned against a wall. The voices had faded, and he heard a sound that could have been footsteps but could have been the beep of a monitor. Wait, those were monitors beeping around him. He recognized that sound.

His breathing was shallow and the lack of proper oxygen flowing to his brain only made it all the more difficult to regain his senses, which were all crawling back to him at a painfully slow pace. Sight was first, his eyes shaping the lights above him, the metal of their frames and the glass bulbs before his gaze managed to still finally, focusing on a single ceiling tile as he waited for everything to catch up. Hearing was next, and though the voices had disappeared he no longer felt like he was listening to everything through a thick wall, his ear pressed up against it with a glass to assist. He could register some sounds though; quiet beeps of heartrate monitors, the steady breathing of other bodies close by. The hospital. He was in the hospital. This was confirmed when he could tactilely feel again, and discovered that he was in a hospital bed, thin sheets tucked in around him, IVs and monitors hooked up to him to keep him alive.

Oh. Right. He was still alive.

And then the tidal wave came crashing down, and Mycroft could really feel again. It wasn't like everything came back in some climactic rush, some part of him had always still been aware of what had happened even if he wasn't consciously recognizing it, but now it was all coming into his conscious mind in one crushing wave that put a pressure on his chest, a vice that squeezed and threatened to take what little air he had in his lungs back out. He gasped, and then shuddered, and then closed his eyes again, unprepared to face reality. No, this wasn't supposed to happen, he was supposed to have avoided this whole mess by killing himself. That had been the plan, that had been his last act of defiance against Neil, that was how this was supposed to work--but he was alive.

It took him a few moments before he opened his eyes again and turned his head to the side to find Sherlock in the bed next to his, and a heady sense of relief instantly overtook Mycroft. His baby brother was curled up on his side facing away from him, but Mycroft could tell that Sherlock was asleep by the steady rise and fall of his side and the level of relaxation that Mycroft only saw in his brother when he was asleep. Thank god he was okay. At least if Mycroft had failed everywhere else, he had succeeded in keeping Sherlock safe. His protective instincts satisfied for the time being, he turned his head the opposite way, and found Greg Lestrade looking at him with an emotion strong enough to nearly make him flinch. "Oh," was all he managed to say at first, though it was less a word and more a soft sound that slipped out of his mouth of its own accord. He wasn't sure if he was actually capable of words at the moment.

Though that wasn't true, really, as he knew he could speak if he really tried, leaden as his tongue felt, but was caught between not knowing what to say and fearing that whatever he did say would bring him to tears. He didn't know how to handle things with Greg, had no idea what the DI knew or what he was thinking, though he could guess. Most likely Greg hated him as much as he hated himself right now. He had to know what happened with Neil, how weak Mycroft had really been in the end. Did he hate him for that? Hate him for giving into temptation once again? Or maybe he pitied him. The suicide attempt, if nothing else, would inspire pity. Mycroft didn't want to discuss any of that, so when he cleared his throat to speak, it was to ask simply, "What happened to Neil?"


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft wakes up and thinks about Uni and his relationship with Neil, Sherlock (thankfully) stays asleep, and Greg has a few things to say.
> 
> Warnings: references to suicide / attempted suicide, references to eating disorders, drug use, emotional abuse, dub con, Uni-Flashbacks, introspection, blackmail, kidnapping, "emotional torture porn", and general dark subject material.

Anthea seemed genuinely relieved as Greg offered his reassurance that he wasn't going to just up and leave because Mycroft's recovery became difficult. She had carried the worry gracefully but it was there in the set of her slim shoulders, at least until they had finished their conversation. Anthea had every right to be worried, Greg supposed. Any sane person would likely have taken one look at the whole situation and run off, possibly screaming while they did so. But Greg's life had long abandoned any remaining scraps of sanity that the Yard left him with when he started working with Sherlock. Two years worth of death threats, poisonings, blackmail, kidnappings, murders, and all other sorts of intrigues had stripped him of whatever sense of normalcy Lestrade had managed to retain despite his career.

Though really, what was 'sanity' worth, in the long run? He hadn't become a police officer because he craved the ordinary, that much was for certain. Knowing the Holmes brothers simply increased the level of oddity and excitement that he was exposed to, sometimes to a dangerous degree. And yet he continued to work with them; by letting Sherlock continue to work with him when no other DI in their right mind would have let an outside consultant anywhere near most of the cases that Greg shared with the surly genius. The effect was compounded by his tolerance of Mycroft's occasional, abrupt meetings, cryptic instructions and overall meddling in both his and Sherlock's affairs. For the first six months after their initial meeting, Lestrade had expected every black car that came anywhere near him to open a tinted window and demand his entry. In some small way, he had even hoped for it. The thought of the auburn haired politician had set his heart to fluttering even then, though for the longest time the DI had just attributed it to nerves. It was completely and wholly mad, but entirely true. Greg knew that his life would be horribly boring without both Sherlock and Mycroft to keep him on his toes, and he wouldn't change a single exhilarating, difficult, occasionally exhausting minute of it.

So no, by no stretch of the imagination was Gregory Lestrade to be considered sane, at least by conventional standards. A date that had ended in two attempts on his life, the kidnapping and attempted suicide of his sort-of boss, kind-of friend, and maybe-something more... and here he was, signing up for more. All it took was a glance to the bed next to his and the answering clenching sensation in his chest to prove that regardless of whether or not his brain was up to the task, his heart had thrown itself all in. He opened his mouth to offer Anthea another round of reassurances, but her large brown eyes had focused on Mycroft while the DI's thoughts were turned inward. As he focused his gaze on where hers was fixed, Greg noticed that the politician's blue eyes were finally open and appeared to be staying that way. With surprising speed, Anthea ducked out of the room, but not before placing a reassuring squeeze to Greg's arm and offering to come back when she was needed.

Once the PA was out of the room, everything sort of crashed into focus. The fuzzyheadedness that he had been experiencing after waking up had faded significantly during his conversation with the slim brunette, and without the buffer of Anthea sitting between them reality crashed into Greg. His body automatically tensed; pulling at the stitches in his abdomen as he prepared himself for Mycroft's potential flight attempt before he realized exactly how silly that was. _Don't be an idiot, Lestrade. Even if he's going to try and leave he's certainly not going to rip out his IV and bolt directly for the door._ With some effort he forced his shoulders to relax; adopting an easier posture in hopes that his earlier tension wouldn't be mis-read by the newly-woken politician. It was a few moments before Mycroft spoke, relief flooding Greg’s chest at the sound of that long-missed posh voice.

"Hey," he offered with a genuine smile. Just seeing those blue eyes flicker open and focus on something was more comforting than Greg could put into words. His smile faded just a bit when Mycroft's first query upon waking was about Neil, but Lestrade supposed if he had been kidnapped and rendered unconscious he'd want to know where his captor was when he woke up.

"Don't worry about Neil. He's currently being held at NSY. He won't be able to get to you for awhile. We hope to make that quite awhile, if things fall into place." No sense in pressing him for a statement immediately, not without knowing what Mycroft's frame of mind was. They had a few hours to work towards that goal. For now, it was simply enough for Greg to look into those stormy blue eyes and know that the politician was awake, talking, and seemed to be largely coherent. Those were three huge steps in the right direction.

"My bigger concern is for you, Mycroft. I can't... I just... God..." he stuttered, unable to fully put the cacophony of emotions he was feeling into words. Finally, Greg settled on the single sentence that seemed the most important, the one that kept repeating itself over and over in his head like a mantra. Relief flooded him, threading its way into his tone as he finally wrapped his brain around the words he was looking for. "Mycroft, I'm **so** glad to see you."

\--------------------

Three months. It didn't really seem like a long time in the grand scheme of life, but it was certainly the longest that Neil had ever invested in a single relationship. He had to hide less and less of himself as time went on; Mycroft was by now adjusted to the older student's darker moods and insatiable appetites, catering to both with a grace that was almost surprising. But then again, Mycroft strove to be exceptional at every one of his endeavors and Neil certainly wasn't going to allow himself to be the exception. Every time they toed close to the line of a confrontation Mycroft skillfully maneuvered himself into a placating position; calming Neil until the older blonde was able to collect himself enough to bestow kisses and favors and praise on the younger man, reinforcing the desire to placate by providing him with the affection that he still seemed ravenous for.

Things were going swimmingly, truth be told. Mycroft had helped him by reading a few students here and there, mostly identifying folks that were funding their social lives by participating in some less than legal sales of recreational substances. Without the auburn haired student's knowledge Neil had then used that information to... well, blackmail was such an ugly word but it fit the bill quite well... blackmail said students into introducing him to people a little further up the chain. The cycle repeated itself, so while Mycroft was diligently working away at classes Neil was making the sort of friends that could ruin a political career in a heartbeat, absorbing the trade and noting the subtle politics that worked in smaller criminal circles. It was fascinating, and full of infinitely less bullshit than legitimate politics. The currency wasn't public favor. It was power. Power and fear, both of which appealed to Neil so much more than the idea of some idiotic approval rating. Why try and change things from the top when the bottom was so much more interesting?

Mycroft was a bit uncomfortable at the few parties they attended, but the attention he lavished on the younger man whenever they returned kept him agreeing to attend more. Each new piece of information gleaned from his readings built Neil's status, fed his ego and helped cement him as a formidable force on the local scene. It was, in short, perfect.

Needless to say, when Mycroft declined to make evening plans to attend another 'gathering' with Neil in favor of tutoring another student, Gibson found himself understandably irked. The whole point of all the time and effort of being a sweet, doting boyfriend was to secure him his spot at the very top of the younger student's priority list. Obviously the auburn haired young man had grown a bit too accustomed to the act, gotten too used to Neil’s mask of congeniality and kindness.

In a way it was perfect. The transgression gave Neil the perfect opportunity to withdraw his affections without having to make something up. That would have proved difficult; Mycroft was more than eager to please and had proved himself willing to do just about anything Neil asked. This was an excellent opportunity to push the boy some, to see how fragile he was when Neil threatened to take away the only thing about his whole Uni experience that Mycroft seemed to be enjoying; his affection. By rights, the older blonde should have been pleased, calculating the perfect amount of force to use to further crack Mycroft’s fragile psyche.

Instead, he found himself just barely on the coherent side of furious. Nobody, nothing at all should come before him. Certainly not some petty tutoring gig. The ridiculous idea had to be stopped immediately. The idea of Mycroft spending time with someone else, choosing to spend time with someone else over **him** made Neil's skin itch and his blood run hot. The whole scenario was unacceptable, he told himself, cursing under his breath slightly as he picked the lock to the younger man's dorm room. At Neil's prompting he had moved into a single room, citing his studies as the reasoning behind his desire for extra privacy. And the University certainly was happy to oblige; either due to the desire to keep the prestigious Holmes family happy, or because they wanted the attention from Mycroft's inevitable success story.

Either way, it didn't matter much to Neil. What was important was that it was another layer of insulation between the younger student and anyone else, continuing to foster Mycroft's dependence on his boyfriend for human contact. As he sat on Mycroft's bed and waited, he calculated the best approach to take to cause maximum damage to his ‘boyfriend’. The young man seemed rather disturbed by the idea of infidelity; he could still catch nervous glances from stormy blue eyes every time talked with someone who was a touch too flirtatious at parties. Best to take that and twist it around, then. He allowed himself a cruel smile as he heard the doorknob rattle before letting his face settle into a blank mask that still radiated anger. Oh, this was going to be fun.

"Well," he hissed, glaring at the outline of Mycroft's lanky form as it was outlined in the doorway by the hall light behind him. "I hope you're quite pleased with yourself. I should have known. All that big talk of exclusivity, and _this_ is what it comes down to. Do you have _anything_ to say for yourself?"

\--------------------

Dating Neil wasn't what he'd expected. On some level it was, because Mycroft still received the addictive affection from the older man that had hooked him in the first place, especially if he put aside what little pride he had to placate the other man whenever he got upset. Neil, he had quickly learned, was a lot darker than he'd first thought. He had worse moods, seemingly bottomless appetites, and a fixation on human distress that concerned Mycroft more than he would ever say. But he bore any of the worse aspects of Neil because it was worth it. When Neil was good, he was great, and more often than not, he would bestow affection and attention on Mycroft that kept him completely under the older student's spell, content to stay with him and placate him at the slightest annoyance, even if he thought Neil's anger was unwarranted.

They'd mostly avoided conflict so far because Mycroft was determined to keep it that way. He knew that Neil was using him for something, having him identify students engaged in illegal activities for some unknown purpose, but he hadn't pried. He didn't really want to know what Neil was using the information for, because that would be accepting that there was something he didn't like about the older student, something wrong in their relationship. And Mycroft couldn't have that. Everything had to stay exactly as it was, perfectly the same, because Neil was rapidly becoming his only connection to the rest of the world. Not that Mycroft had had many connections before, but he had at least had a few tentative friends, mostly people in the same advanced programs as him, and there had been his roommate, who was quiet, but nice. But everyone was slowly dropping out of his life as it began to revolve more and more around Neil.

No, he couldn't discuss the most recent physics lecture, he had plans with Neil. No, he couldn't tutor tonight, Neil wanted him to go to a party. No, he couldn't even go on a double date because unless it was one of Neil's friends, Neil wasn't interested, and even then the older man didn't want to go. Instead, he wanted to drag him to parties and use Mycroft's intellect while he networked, even though Mycroft was obviously uncomfortable with the situation. Sure, everyone knew they were dating--word traveled fast when it was Neil Gibson, especially since no one expected him to be with Mycroft of all people--and Neil's supposed 'friends' did talk to him at these parties and socialize, but Mycroft knew they were really just either trying to get closer to Neil or trying to figure out how on earth Mycroft had managed to land such a 'catch'. The most common explanation that Mycroft overheard was that he must be a damn good shag, which made him flush whenever he heard it and excuse himself from the room, Neil grinning at him the entire time if he'd heard the comment as well.

Besides, even on nights when Mycroft didn't have to deal with quite so many idiots, he still had to deal with the overly flirtatious floozies who usually tried to get Neil's attentions throughout the night. Once Neil started dating Mycroft, the number seemed to double, as more people suddenly seemed to think that, well, if Mycroft Holmes could get him, why couldn't they? It didn't do Mycroft any good to be constantly anxious about the chance of infidelity on Neil's part, though he never stopped to consider the fact that if he honestly believed Neil would cheat on him, he actually had no trust in the man. Really, he was just waiting for the day Neil got bored with him or found someone better and moved on. So he suffered Neil's worse moods, fed his insatiable and sometimes unsavory appetites as best he could, and continued to savor every scrap of affection he received from the other man.

But tonight was different. He'd had a tutoring session planned for quite some time, for a student that was older than him but needed help in Advanced Calculus because they shouldn't have taken the class in the first place. Of course, tonight was one of the nights that Neil decided he required Mycroft's presence at another social gathering, and usually Mycroft would have said yes because even if he hated the parties themselves, the absolute wealth of attention that Neil lavished on him following one of them as a kind of a 'thank you' made it worth it. But tonight was different. Mycroft had been up all night the night before finishing a paper for his literature class, and he was exhausted, his shoulders and back were sore, and he had had to move this tutoring appointment twice already. A party was definitely the last thing he wanted. So he told Neil with just a touch of firmness that he wasn't going to go, too busy with tutoring.

He knew Neil wasn't happy with him. It was obvious in the way the older student reacted, with almost disbelief that Mycroft would rather keep a promise than spend more time with his boyfriend. He fully expected another almost-but-not-quite conflict over it, and he was sure that he could find a way to make it up to Neil later on. What he hadn't expected, however, was to come back from his tutoring session and find Neil in his dorm room, sitting on his bed and waiting to pounce as soon as Mycroft was within earshot.

Mycroft could hardly believe his ears for a moment. Wait, Neil was accusing _him_ of infidelity? Over a tutoring session? Mycroft flipped on the lights in the room and shut the door behind himself, dropping his bag to the floor by his desk. This was going to last a while, he could already tell that. But maybe with some placating he would get lucky and Neil would drop the whole thing, reassured once again that Mycroft was his. Because honestly, that shouldn't have even been a question at this point. Mycroft hadn't done a single thing to give Neil the impression that he would be unfaithful, and how could he, really, when he hardly talked to anyone but Neil?

"Neil," he said, his bewilderment obvious in his voice, "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. I went to go tutor another student, I told you that. That's all that I did, tutor. Patrick is very much straight and very, very not interested, and you know I would never do anything like that to you. Why on earth would you think that poorly of me?"

\--------------------

At the news that Neil was being held at NSY, far away from the hospital and not of immediate danger to Mycroft, a wave of relief flooded the politician, similar to the one that had come when he saw that Sherlock was safe, but not quite as strong. He knew that Neil was still very much a threat to him and everyone he loved, especially if he heard that Mycroft had survived his suicide attempt and was receiving treatment after he'd purposefully incensed the psychopath. It must have driven him crazy, watching Mycroft slip out of his control in the only way he had left, in a way that was supposed to keep him permanently out of Neil's reach. _I win_. If he'd died, he would have indeed won against Neil. Instead, he was at as much risk as before, if not more, and everyone around him was at risk as well, just as before.

How long would it take, then? How long until either Neil came to look for him or Mycroft crawled back to him to apologize? Really, it depended on how badly he'd fucked up with Greg and Sherlock and Anthea at this point. Eyes like a stormy sea inspected Greg carefully, watching for signs of how the DI was feeling upon seeing him again. Surely there must be some anger in there. Some form of hatred, some condemnation, some judgment of the politician for what he'd done. But no, all he could see in Greg's expression was pure relief, and Mycroft was unprepared for the words that came out of Greg's mouth.

_"Mycroft, I'm_ _**so** _ _glad to see you."_

Greg was...Greg was happy to see him? Mycroft's brow furrowed as he searched his mind for a logical explanation for this phenomenon, his brain moving much more slowly than usual, the aftereffects of the overdose and the medications now in his system. Ah. The suicide attempt. Greg, while perhaps harboring some negative feelings towards Mycroft for his actions, hadn't actually wanted the other man to die. Well, that made sense, it wasn't in Greg's nature to be that malicious. Even if he was angry, he would still rather have Mycroft alive than dead by his own hand, or even by someone else's. So, that made sense. But Greg was also expressing concern for him. No, no, that wasn't right. He couldn't be concerned, Mycroft wouldn't allow him to be concerned. He had caused Gregory Lestrade enough pain and anxiety within the past two days, the last thing he needed was to cause any more.

No, he would fix this. He would make it absolutely clear that his care was not Greg's responsibility, that despite having almost purposely died, he was completely alright and didn't need anyone's help. He would isolate himself as usual, and either fight this on his own, or give in and give himself over to Neil again. Either way, Greg was free to go and worry about himself and pursue Sherlock all he liked, without Mycroft hanging over his head like a particularly heavy raincloud.

"There's no need to be concerned for me, Gregory, I'm perfectly alright. Tired, but alright," Mycroft said, his voice as even as he could make it. He found that it was nearly impossible to maintain eye contact with Greg, and his eyes slipped shut again so he wouldn't have to see every painfully heartbreaking tic of Greg's expression. "It may seem from my actions that I am otherwise, but I assure you, there's no need for your concern."

\--------------------

The expression of utter confusion on Mycroft's face as Greg conveyed his concern and relief to the other man was more than enough to make the DI's heart sink to the pit of his stomach. It really was evident in those cerulean eyes, just for a moment, exactly how little the politician truly thought of himself. That he would be so shocked by Lestrade's worry for him was positively heartbreaking. The look of bewilderment faded after a moment, morphing into a sort of grim resignation before settling into that perfectly calculated neutral that had seemed to be the man's permanent expression when Lestrade first met him. When Mycroft answered Greg, the false evenness in his voice was damn near perfect. Only **knowing** what the man had been through tipped the DI off enough that he was able to recognize the incredibly subtle tells in his tone; a flat note here, a word too quickly or slowly spoken there.

"Yeah, well. You've been shot, kidnapped, and unconscious for hours," the DI said, hints of humor threading through his tone. "I suppose you're just going to have to live with my concern. Though you are at least doing well on some level. God knows I couldn't lie that well before at least one cup of coffee, and here you've managed it after practically coming out of a coma." Greg's voice was warm and kind, but the way his silver brows knitted together and the twitch of his mouth as it tried to settle into a frown certainly betrayed the enormity of his underlying concern. Or they would have if Mycroft hadn't closed his eyes; the politician effectively shutting out as much contact with Greg as he could short of leaving the room, which wasn't really an option.

"Hey. Look at me," he urged, gentle but firm, unwilling to let Mycroft shut him out so easily. "You're not ok. I know you well enough to know that. And pretty much nothing you have to say is going to stop me from worrying about you, so you may as well stop trying. C'mon. You know I'm a stubborn bastard, and you've at least got to have some questions. How about you humor me and at least let me answer those?"

\--------------------

"Yes, just a tutoring job, I'm sure," Neil snarled as Mycroft dropped his bag on the floor of his dorm. "With ever so straight Patrick. _Patrick_ , who is the only reason in the past three month's that you've been willing to call off plans with me. _Patrick_ , who you've been trying to see alone for a few weeks now. _Patrick_ ," he spat, voice full of spite and venom. "Who despite his lauded heterosexuality merits one of your favorite suits.

"Don't play stupid with me, I won't have it. I'm in advanced calculus too; you easily could have invited me along to help instead of turning me down outright. But no, you just had to go see your student all by yourself while kitted out in this nice little charcoal number that, if I remember correctly, you wore on **our** first date." The older student's tone was positively malicious, green eyes sharp and cutting with accusation. God, Mycroft's choice of suit had been a lucky coincidence. It was difficult to suppress the grin that almost stretched across his face, but he countered the expression with a formidable scowl.

"What the hell else am I supposed to think? You've been positively **frigid** lately. As clever as you think you are, I can see right through all your little acts, Mycroft. I can see right to the core of you." Finally, Neil let the anger drop, at least for a moment. Instead, he lapsed into a confused, hurt tone that still managed to be accusatory. "You couldn't be any less interested in spending time with me lately, at least in public. Oh, you can't get enough of us in private, that's for certain. But you hate going out with me to the point that even other people have started commenting on it. Why do you think half the people that come over to talk to me are testing the waters, trying to catch my interest? Given how cold and disinterested you've been, everyone's convinced that we're very nearly through."

\--------------------

The last thing Mycroft wanted to do was open his eyes and let Greg see what he was hiding behind closed lids. He didn't want to have to look at the other man and catalogue his motions, dissect his expressions to find the hidden disdain underneath the concern. And he certainly didn't want the DI to see what lay underneath Mycroft's carefully acted expressions either. But Greg was Greg and just the sound of his voice was making Mycroft feel guilty, so he opened his eyes and turned to face him.

Greg looked genuinely concerned. That was the first surprise. Mycroft had expected Greg's initial relief to fade into anger or something close as soon as he'd recovered from the knowledge that Mycroft was still alive. Instead, the DI was looking at him with an expression so full of concern that it made something clench tight in the politician's chest, a type of vice that squeezed the air out of his already weak lungs. The second surprise was that Greg was offering to answer any questions that he had, which was not the reaction Mycroft had expected. Typically, Anthea diplomatically withheld information, usually to get Mycroft to cooperate with her, but here Greg was, offering it up freely. Excellent.

"Yes, I do have several questions," he said, the same even calmness in his voice even though his heart was picking up speed just thinking about what Greg's answer would be. "I would like to know what happened after I left the hospital, as much as you know, at least, including my brother's role in my recovery. I would also--" Here he hesitated, unsure of whether he actually wanted to know the answer to this question. "I would also like to know what you and Sherlock know about my time with -- in captivity."

\--------------------

Mycroft hovered somewhere between the door and the bed where Neil sat, paralyzed by a cocktail of confusion, shock, and panic. He wasn't sure whether he could actually move or not at the moment, pinned down as he was by Neil's accusatory emerald gaze. But that didn't cut him nearly as much as the hurt tone that Neil took, just for a second, as he accused Mycroft of being frigid and distant in public, claiming that the younger student didn't want to spend time with him and that it was leading to rumors of them breaking up. Panic was definitely winning out in Mycroft's system now. No, no, no, they couldn't break up, no, this wasn't making any sense, why would Neil be saying these things?

He felt his heart seize up at the thought that Neil genuinely believed all of this, and that this was going to be the end. He was going to lose the positive attention and affection that he'd grown so accustomed to in the past few months, and no, that couldn't happen. He wouldn't let it. So the apologies started pouring out, all with a slight tremor in his voice. "Neil, I promise you, it really was just a tutoring session. I didn't invite you because I didn't think you would be interested, not because I didn't want you there. And I chose this suit at random today, I wasn't dressing up for Patrick."

A thin thread of panic was winding its way into his voice the more that he talked, but he couldn't seem to keep it out and words kept on spilling over of their own accord, all of them eager to get out in an effort to explain himself for something he didn't do. "And of course I love spending time with you, but you know I hate those parties. I don't--I don't fit in there, your so-called friends don't like me and I'm either a subject of scorn or envy," he said, the panic taking on a touch of anger. Neil knew he hated those parties, so why on earth did he have to keep dragging him to them? "I can't go to every single party with you, I have other commitments as well and I have gone to nearly all of them anyway. I missed one tonight because I made a promise to a student that I've already failed to deliver on twice. I had to keep it this time, and I'm not going to apologize for that. You know I wasn't purposely trying to not spend time with you, I don't know where this is coming from."

\--------------------

When Mycroft opened his blue-grey eyes and turned them towards Greg, the DI felt his stomach somersault. Without consulting him his system pitched into a hopeful high as those lovely eyes widened momentarily in a combination of hope and surprise, only to plummet once that flicker of emotion across those aristocratic features quickly settled into that damned expressionless mask once again. A small flicker of optimism remained in the largely aching hollow of Greg's chest. A brief flash of response, of actual emotion, was at better than nothing at all. At least Mycroft had responded. For a moment Greg was worried that the other man really was just going to lie there, eyes closed, and shut out everything around him. His voice smooth and even (if a touch weary), Mycroft asked Lestrade for the absolute most difficult to discuss and sensitive information about the last 48 hours.

Well shit. On one hand, Greg should have expected Mycroft to cut right to the core of the issues; even distraught as he was the man's predisposition towards political efficiency governed his actions. It was endearing and terribly frustrating, but Lestrade had offered and Mycroft had at least responded so he should return the favor.

"Ah. Yes. Right. Let's see," Greg said, slipping a bit into officer mode as he tried to distance himself some from the emotional content of the information he was delivering. "You left the hospital with Neil shortly after he threatened Sherlock, and Anthea seemed to think that they couldn't immediately follow you because you helped erase any CCTV footage that would have indicated where you were headed. Once you were gone, she sent a team to retrieve your brother. When they brought him back to the hospital they had him room with me."

"After that it was mostly waiting; Sherlock figured out that it was Neil, who had taken you. When your team wasn't able to make any significant progress I asked Anthea to let Sherlock in on the investigation. I know you asked us both to not get involved, but having something for him to do was better than having him just sitting in bed, stewing." He gave Mycroft a concerned look, waiting for some sort of angry or disappointed response from the other man. Nothing came; the politician's face remaining perfectly calm and still, obviously waiting for Greg to continue.

Lestrade shook his head, slightly, raking a hand through his silver hair as he re-gathered his thoughts. The complete placidity of Mycroft's expression was both heartbreaking and disturbing; Greg’s visceral reaction was to feel a bolt of concern shoot down his spine. Maybe giving Mycroft the information he asked for was the wrong idea. Maybe it was too soon. In for a penny, in for a pound, though. It wouldn't do to stop mid-story just because the upcoming subject material was incredibly unpleasant. Whether or not telling him was the right decision it had been made, and it needed to be seen through.

"Your brother went through your phone, but came up with nothing. He did pick out a neighborhood and some generalized types of buildings to look for, but there were a lot of them. Enough that it was going to take your team some time to search through them all. After that little bit of progress it was largely a waiting game. We didn't have much to go on. Neil fucked up when he sent us a video, presumably to taunt us and hurt you further. Too bad for him, though, because it was that video that Sherlock managed to identify the actual building that you were being held in, and turned the information over to Anthea. Your team raided the place, retrieved you, and brought you here." For a moment Greg considered using the professional, smooth tone of his own to answer the final, hardest parts of Mycroft's queries. The DI recognized that he was tired enough that it wouldn't be terribly convincing, and besides that encouraging an emotional shutdown was the last thing he wanted. The first step in receiving honesty was to give honesty. God, this was going to hurt.

"As for what I know about your time in captivity. Well. There was the video." Greg stopped for a moment, struggling for the right words. "Whether it was due to coercion or not, you apparently had sex with him. Which, given that he's your ex, isn't exactly shocking, Mycroft. If you had any idea how many times I ended up having post-separation sex with Janice it'd boggle your mind. It's a thing that happens when you've been with someone for that long. Janice and I got together in Uni too. After that much time together, it can seem like they know you better than you know yourself. And if they want something, they'll very likely end up getting it from you."

As he spoke, the DI noted threads of both wistfulness and embarrassment working their way into his voice. It was hard to think of Janice without at least remember some of the good times. Still. Shacking up with Janice after their separation, when he _**knew**_ that she had been cheating on him during their marriage, was one of Greg's least proud moments. But it was important for Mycroft to know that having 'relapse-sex', as Greg liked to think of it, was a human thing. A weakness that everyone shared; not a shame that was that was his and his alone. And given the immense amount of personal information Greg had received about Mycroft it was only decent of him to give some back in return. Maybe things wouldn't feel so oddly off kilter if the flow of information went both ways.

"As for the rest of it... Well, I know you took a bottle of painkillers right before your team showed up. What I don't know is why you did it. Maybe you could help me out with that bit?"

\--------------------

Neil watched Mycroft carefully, suppressing a smirk as the younger man halted in the doorway. His pale hands fluttered at his sides, eyes wide with shock; his entire posture reminded Neil of one of those pinned butterflies that came in glass cases, but alive. The image was lovely, and it took some effort to once again make sure his face stayed in the mask of bitter anger as he continued to stare down his stunned boyfriend. When Mycroft finally found his voice, tremulous though it was, the apologies started spilling out just as the older student had suspected. Good. Get someone to apologize for something enough times and eventually they'd start to believe it was true. But then the most unexpected thing happened. The younger man's tone took on an angry edge, frustration bleeding through as he went through a surprisingly well thought out defense. Huh. A little bit of affection must have given

"Logic. I should have know that's what you'd try and defend yourself with. What are you, some kind of fucking robot? Here I am, pouring my heart out to you and all you do is go down a list of the facts," Neil hissed, voice dripping with derision. "Or should I say the facts according to _you_. Because I'll tell you, no matter what you think, that's not how things look from over here. A few people are jealous of you, it's true. You're ahead of everyone in your class, and just about everyone in the classes above yours as well. But you certainly aren't the subject of anyone's _scorn_. People mostly avoid you because you're cold to the point of being hostile. You don't try talking to people, or making new friends. You stick by my side and glare at me for half the night, and the other half of your time you spend shooting daggers at anyone that comes within five feet of us."

"You know what I think? I think that you prefer being alone. You gave this," he waved one hand in the air between them, gesturing to the space between them as if it held a physical, tangible connection, "a try, decided to experiment a little bit with me and see if you wanted to be with someone. Obviously you've decided that it's not for you. Because you certainly are going out of your way to shut me out. So tell me, Mycroft. Exactly how am I supposed to know that you weren't purposely shutting me out when you act like everything we do together besides fucking is a chore?"

\--------------------

It was a Herculean effort to keep his face impassive as Greg told him that Sherlock had figured out Neil was the one behind the attack. Shit. Mycroft had known, of course, that his brother would eventually figure it out, especially if he became involved in the actual investigation, but some small part of him had hoped to avoid that particular unpleasantness. But, of course, not only had Sherlock figured it out ahead of time, he had also seen the video that Neil had sent. At least, that was what Mycroft gathered from what Greg was telling him. And, of course, Greg had seen it as well.

Something hot and sick flashed through Mycroft's stomach when Greg said he knew Mycroft had slept with Neil. The DI continued, saying it was perfectly normal to relapse with an ex and that he himself had done the same with his ex wife. That was all well and good, Mycroft supposed, but it didn't change how he felt about it. It didn't get rid of the nauseating sense of shame and guilt buried deep in his gut, didn't soothe the wall of self-hatred blocking Greg's concern from his heart, didn't erase the words that Neil had written over and over again across his soul until Mycroft had no choice but to believe them. He was so far past the point of believing he deserved anything better than Neil Gibson that Greg's words hardly registered, falling hollowly against his ears and leaving nothing in their wake. It didn't matter what Greg had to say, just like it didn't matter why Mycroft had downed that entire bottle of pills; Mycroft had already made his bed, and his only choice left was to lie in it. It didn't matter if Greg sympathized with him now, because eventually he would hate Mycroft no matter what.

Mycroft's eyes slipped shut as he turned away from Greg, trying to formulate a response that would satisfy the man. The DI's request had been casually worded, but Mycroft could hear the serious intent beneath it, the sincere confusion and a hint of concern. Why had he done it? There were a lot of reasons, really, ranging from exhaustion to despair to self hatred to guilt to shame and everything in between. But really, it all boiled down to the same thing; Neil had been right. And the only way that Mycroft could win against him was to kill himself, because Neil didn't get to choose whether he lived or died and it was the only way for Mycroft to take back control of his life. As sad as that thought was. But would that make any sense to Greg? Would it just make it that much harder for Greg to let go of him, make him dig in his heels deeper and try to help Mycroft more? _I win_.

Mycroft sighed slightly, and kept his eyes closed as he spoke, a defense measure against the DI who had already managed to get so far in. Time to shove him back out. "I can't say I'm surprised that you asked, Gregory, as I assumed the subject would come up." He smiled slightly, humorlessly. "Well, at the time I didn't think I would ever see you again. I did it for a lot of reasons, many of which you may have already surmised. But really, my decision served a dual purpose; it protected those close to me, and it allowed me one final act of defiance against Neil. If I was dead, he wouldn't be able to use those I cared for as a bargaining chip against me, nor would he be able to manipulate me again. It was the most logical option."

\--------------------

No no no no no no no, this was spinning out of Mycroft's control and any trace of anger was washed away by the sheer shock of Neil's words hitting him full force. Alone. Neil honestly thought that Mycroft preferred to be alone, that their relationship was some kind of sick experiment that he was engaging in--Mycroft's blood ran cold. Did this mean Neil was going to try to leave him? Was he going to be pushed away by this? No, Mycroft couldn't have that, he couldn't be alone again, that had been such a dark time and he wasn't prepared for that--

His pride buckled and gave way under the pressure of desperation, and Mycroft found himself by the bed before he could blink and then he was kneeling in front of Neil and clutching onto Neil's knees, desperation written across his features. "No, Neil, I don't prefer being alone, I hate being alone, please don't misunderstand me. I just--I just didn't think this would upset you so much, I thought it would be alright if I took a night to tutor. Of course I would have rather been spending time with you, but I made a promise and I had to keep it. I'm sorry. I promise you I'm not trying to shut you out, and spending time with you certainly isn't a chore, quite the opposite in fact. So please, I'm sorry."

\--------------------

Only the very slightest of twitches at the corners of Mycroft's closed eyes, the barest hints of his lips tugging downward into a frown, the subtle way his eyebrows drew a fraction of a millimeter together indicated to Greg that anything he said was having an effect on Mycroft. The other man had let his eyes drift closed again, looking almost serene in his hospital bed as he silently absorbed Lestrade's question before answering, turning his face away from the DI. Unfortunately that particular angle exposed the ravaged side of the politician's pale throat for Greg, and Lestrade could feel a massive rush of anger flood his system for a moment; the sensation so intense that the very edges of his vision actually misted into a sort of red haze. The anger wasn't directed at Mycroft, but rather at the man Greg knew put those marks there.

Neil fucking Gibson. Between the purplish bruises left on Mycroft's neck and the obviously deep scars he left on the man's psyche, Greg was aching to introduce the psychopath to his fists. Everything was that bastard’s fault. This entire mess that ended up in Mycroft's, Sherlock's, and even his own hospitalization was directly caused by that insufferable man. The silver haired DI hadn't forgotten that for however willing he had appeared to be on that horrible video, Mycroft couldn't have been more upset about leaving the hospital and turning himself over to that his psychopathic ex.

Whatever Neil had gotten Mycroft to do, no matter how twisted things got up in terms of consent or intention, that heartbreaking image of Mycroft as he left would remain seared in Greg's mind. Mycroft hadn't wanted to go, hadn't wanted to see Neil and certainly hadn't wanted to sleep with him. No matter what happened between those last few moments they shared in Greg's hospital room and what the DI saw on that damned video tape, nothing really changed the fact that if Neil hadn't abducted him, Mycroft wouldn't have been in a situation to 'relapse' with Neil in the first place. And that relapse, that temporary but total loss of control was probably a good portion of what drove Mycroft to choose to take those pills.

Eyes closed and face turned away from him, Mycroft's voice sounded softer and further away than it actually was. But instead of lying (at least Greg was pretty sure the politician wasn't trying to deceive him) it seemed like the politician was opting to tell Greg the truth. About wanting to act out in defiance, as well as wanting to protect the people around him. It made complete and total sense. In a way, his decision **was** completely logical. Being held captive, having his brother used as collateral to insure that Mycroft delivered himself over to Neil; there was no calculating how horrible it all must have been. Cut off from everyone and everything, what other options could he possibly have had? Would Greg have done the same, if he thought it would save his friends? Undoubtedly. It was barely even a question. Part of him wanted to rail against Mycroft, to tell the man that nothing was more valuable than his life, but Greg knew how he'd react to something like that and it wouldn't be very well.

"I get that," he muttered softly, almost below the register of the politician's hearing. "The control bit, anyway. I used to think about it, back when I was a teenager, when things would get really bad at home. It was the only comforting thing I had, sometimes, to know that the ultimate decision to deal with or not deal with life was mine and mine alone. I never tried anything, mind you. But I made preparations once or twice. So yeah, I get that. I'm just so incredibly sorry that things got to that point for you."

"As for protecting people, I can't say I've got my head wrapped fully around that because fortunately I haven't been in a position where someone has threatened my friends and family like that. I hope to the very ends of my being that I never have to experience that. I think... or at least I'd like to think, that given the absolute lack of options you had I might have done the same thing, if I thought it would keep the people close to me safe." Greg couldn't help the slight hitch in his voice as his breath caught around the icy lump in his throat. It was understandable, but absolutely heartbreaking. "I'm just so very glad that your team got to you in time, that we got to see each other again. And... now that you're here, and safe... there are other ways to make sure that Neil can't try and hurt you, or Sherlock, ever again."

'He's in custody now, Mycroft. NSY won't be able to hold him for too much longer, but if you give a statement detailing his involvement in your kidnapping they can hold him for significantly longer. In fact, given your position and his involvement in the assault on an officer I expect that he'd even be denied bail altogether and have to remain imprisoned until trial. Sherlock's already close to linking him to both the drug and human trafficking rings, and given more time he's certain he'd succeed. So there's the potential to take everything away from him. His businesses, his freedom, **everything**. I know it's a lot to ask, especially given what you've been through. And no-one is going to force you to do so. But I wanted to be sure that you knew there were other options, other strategies you could take to protect yourself now that you're no longer being held by him."

"I'm not looking for an answer, now. So please don't feel like you need to provide one." Lestrade's voice was low, brought down by exhaustion and the smallest touch of concern and heartache that he couldn't entirely keep out of his tone. "I just... it's... something for you to consider. I just wanted you to know that you don't have to try hurting yourself again to get some back from that fucker, is all."

\--------------------

As the Mycroft finally collapsed under the weight of their argument, stumbling half blind across the room only to drop to his knees in front of Neil, the older student had to bite back a satisfied grin. Oh, that had very nearly been too easy. The smug blonde had prepared himself for the other student to last at least a few more rounds, but one simple mention of being alone had Mycroft tripping over himself to get back on Neil's good side.

"Mycroft," he soothed, carding his fingertips through fine auburn hair. "Mycroft. My poor _heartless_ Mycroft. What am I going to do with you?" One hand worked itself under Mycroft's chin, tilting the younger man's head up so Neil could gaze directly into his slate blue eyes, which held just the barest hint of watering, while the hand in his hair moved to cup the younger man's cheek. Mycroft on the verge of tears was a beautiful thing. Interestingly enough, Neil hadn't quite made his pet cry yet. Not one to let an opportunity go, the blonde quickly set himself to tearing away at his partner's insecurities.

"You don't know the first damned thing about relationships, do you." The older blonde gave a slight, disappointed sigh and let his fingers fall from Mycroft's face. Green eyes cast downward, deliberately not meeting Mycroft's concerned, nearly heartbroken gaze. It was better for Neil to appear completely lost in his own sorrows than to try to read Mycroft's face, even if he was going to miss some of his gorgeously pain-wracked reactions. With only the slightest of efforts, he let his face settle into a mask of horrified realization, then utter devastation.

"You don't love me. You **can't**. It's not your fault, not really. There isn't any room in that brain of yours for anything other than logic, or facts. You've got no heart about you at all, do you? By your own admission you didn't even think about the impact of your actions tonight. My feelings don't even register with you, do they? It's enough for you to keep me placated so I'll keep you happy, but the minute what I want conflicts with what you think you need to do I'm written off without so much as thought."

"God only knows what I've gotten myself into with you. You'll never really care about me, will you? Oh, don't misunderstand me. You'll try. You'll break my fucking heart for trying, and I'll put up with it because I care about you too much to let you go. But you'll never quite make it to really, truly caring for me will you?" another sigh, and Neil brought his emerald eyes back into contact with Mycroft's blue-grey, savoring the look of horrified shock and outright despair that lingered there. "Oh Mycroft, what am I going to do with you?"

\--------------------

Something in Mycroft twisted painfully when Greg confessed that in his teenage years he had not only considered taking his own life, but had actually made preparations more than once. It was heartbreaking, to think that this amazing man wouldn't be here today because of poor circumstances and the actions of his family. The concern he was hearing in Greg's voice was sincere because Greg had actually been to that place and knew what it was like. And he was just happy Mycroft had made it back alive. It was hard to try and shut Greg out when Greg said things like that and meant them sincerely, but Mycroft was determined. It would be better for Greg, for everyone, if he isolated himself and dealt with this on his own.

But then Greg started talking about a possible statement about the kidnapping, something that would be enough to hold Neil for longer, and Mycroft's eyes popped open again. Oh, of course, Greg wasn't actually concerned. Greg just wanted to do his job, wanted to put a criminal behind bars and protect Sherlock in the meantime, because Sherlock was Sherlock and Greg was Greg. That was why he was doing this, why he was sympathizing and consoling and advising, because he wanted something from Mycroft that he knew Mycroft would be reluctant to provide. That was why Anthea had left them alone as well, because she also wanted Neil behind bars and knew that Greg would be the most likely person to convince Mycroft. But if he locked Neil away, he wouldn't have anyone left. He'd be entirely alone, with no guarantee that he could ever have the kind of affection that Neil gave him from anyone else, poisonous as it was.

"Of course," Mycroft said, his voice soft. "Anthea put me in the same room as you and Sherlock because she knew I would want to see my brother and you would try to convince me to give a statement. I always seem to underestimate that woman." He turned to give Greg a thin smile, no humor in it. "What did she tell you, Gregory? That as soon as I awoke, I'd want to go back to Neil? I'm sure she was quite clear on what she knew about our relationship, but believe me when I say that neither her nor Sherlock truly know anything about it. Did they manage to convince you that Neil ruined me, broke me into pieces and spit me back out? Because I'm sure they didn't tell you about the other side of the relationship."

"I'm sure they didn't tell you about the part that they never saw, the sweet kisses and easy affection and pleasant memories. Neil isn't the devil and my time with him wasn't hell, as much as I'm sure you would like it to be. The truth that everyone sees and yet refuses to accept is that Neil and I suit each other, perhaps more than anyone else I've met is suited to me." _Including you_ , he thought, though that absolutely wasn't true. Greg was actually wonderfully suited to him, if their date had been any indication, but he was trying to cut that possibility down before it disappointed him like every other possibility had in the past. Neil was right when he said that Mycroft only hurt people when he tried to be with them. No matter what he did, though, it seemed like he couldn't hurt Neil, and Neil was committed to staying. So why wouldn't he choose that?

\--------------------

The relief brought by the slide of Neil's fingers through his hair was short-lived, extinguished as the older man tore into Mycroft's heart with statements that quite literally made it hard to breathe. It was true. He was so completely out of his depth with this relationship, so unsure of everything he did and so prone to mistakes that he didn't even know he'd made. He was trying to follow Neil, trying to copy the older student's actions, but that was just sad, wasn't it? That he had to mimic Neil to try to make their relationship work? No wonder Neil was so upset.

Mycroft found himself falling further and further into despair the deeper he fell under Neil's spell, beginning to truly believe the things the other man was telling him as that emerald gaze looked away from him, taking a piece of his soul with it. Yes, he was heartless. No, he didn't think of how his actions affected Neil. No, he wouldn't be able to love Neil--

No, that one wasn't true. He did care about Neil, more deeply than he'd cared about anyone else. It was too early for him to say that he loved him, Mycroft's heart carefully guarded behind the logic of his brain, but he knew that he did care about him. For Neil to say that was untrue, and Mycroft could prove it if he needed to. "I'll stop," he said softly when Neil had finished speaking, the older student looking so disheartened and devastated by the younger man at his feet. "I'll stop tutoring, I'll go out with you when you want, I promise. Y-you're right, Neil, I don't know anything about relationships, but I can get better."

"Just tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it. You're wrong when you say I don't care about you, because I do. So please, let me fix it. Just please don't leave." His voice broke on the last word, the first tear falling that he'd cried during his relationship with Neil, just the first of many over the next two years. He lay his head down on Neil's lap as his face crumpled, the dam finally coming down. He was just so, so afraid of being alone. Of being without Neil.

\--------------------

"Neither Sherlock or Anthea needed to convince me of anything, let alone the nature of Neil Gibson." Lestrade said, careful to keep his tone even. Mycroft's attempt to cut him to the quick had hit a little too close to the bone for Greg to not feel some heat. None of it directed at the politician, though. That emotion was focused entirely on the idea of his psychopathic ex. "You did a perfectly good job of that yourself when you left. I've never seen you so shaken as you were then. Your reaction to his presence told me everything I needed to know about the man. No matter what he, or even you yourself, may have tried to convince you of since then." Greg offered a small shrug and a matching smile, both a touch wistful.

"I'm no Holmes, but I've got eyes and ears. It was plain as day to anyone with a set of both how distraught you were." Sighing, he settled back into his bed a little more comfortably. Sitting up was still hell on his abdomen, and the morphine had left him incredibly tired. But this wasn't any time for rest; that could wait until later. Lestrade pushed forward, trying to pick up each thread of discussion that Mycroft had brought into play, and somehow refute them. Or at least offer a counterpoint to the other man's massively destructive way of thinking. Still, there was that underlying stubbornness that was pure Mycroft, and Greg couldn't help but have another small smile.

"Yes, Anthea did mention to me that you might try to return to him. And yes, it troubles me. For one, because I truly believe that you deserve something better than what he has to offer." _Even if it's not me_ , his mind added unhelpfully.

"As for the sweetness and all; I'm sure that's true. Abusers always have to dole out rewards now and again, or there'd be nothing to keep their victims coming back to them. It's basic psychology, something that I know you're well versed in. You can't expect me to believe, really and truly believe, that you think a man who is capable of kidnapping, drugging, and threatening to sell your brother really has any affection in him at all."

"I know that sounds harsh, and I'm sorry if it hurts you. But it's true, Mycroft. Anthea, Sherlock and I are the ones who actually care about you; who want you to be happy. Neil only gives a fuck about his own sick game, or he wouldn't do things to you that hurt you so badly." He felt a sting at the back of his eyes, some horrible combination of sadness and exhaustion finally cresting over the walls of stoicism he had erected. His eyes burned, so Greg shut them briefly as he continued. Being overly emotional wasn't going to help his case at all.

"And as for me.... Well, I'm here as more than just a messenger of Anthea's, more than a means to get you to give a statement or testify. I'm here as your friend, Mycroft. The same as I was before you left. I told you that I'd be here for you when you came back, no matter what. And here I am." Feeling a bit more stable, Greg turned his gaze on Mycroft once again, unsurprised to find that the man was pointedly not looking at him. The DI continued to stare anyway, on the off chance that the politician would look up and make eye contact. He desperately wanted Mycroft to look at him, to look into his eyes and do that amazing deduction bit and see exactly how honest he was being.

"I haven't changed. And despite what you've recently been through I don't think you've changed either. You're still Mycroft Holmes, and I still..." His voice stalled in his throat, stuck around a tight lump that he hadn't even realized was growing there until it cut him off. Perhaps talking about his own feelings wasn't the best way to go about this. But Greg didn't really have anything else to offer. The silence stretched on awkwardly, as Lestrade tried to find some way to put his thoughts and feelings that didn't revolve around confessing that he still (or more accurately, always) held feelings for Mycroft. He came up woefully short handed.

"Dammit," he growled, voice gravelly with the slightest hints of frustration bubbling up. "I can't think of any better way to put this. I fancied you before all this. I still fancy you now. I can't promise I'd be the best boyfriend in the world or anything, god knows I'm a workaholic who's so far out of practice in relationships that I may as well be starting from scratch. But I can promise you, at the very least, that I won't hurt you on purpose. I think that's more than you can say for Neil."

"So, whether or not you return the feelings, and I certainly don't expect you to! You've been through a lot and I'm not dumping this on you because I expect any kind of reciprocation. But... I just wanted you to know that... well... you're... people other than Neil will see the value in you. He's not your only option. And being single sucks; take it from the guy who spent the last three months of his life drinking himself to sleep most nights. But even _**that**_ was better than being with Janice. I think if you really consider it, you'll realize that being alone and hurting for awhile will be better than being with Neil and hurting forever."


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft predicts his potential future with Greg, the two of them make a deal, and a few flashbacks reveal the first time Mycroft tried to leave Neil.
> 
> Warnings: References to eating disorders, dub-con, emotional abuse, sadism, Uni-flashbacks, introspection, blackmail, kidnapping, "emotional torture porn", and general dark subject material.

The instant Neil stopped speaking, Mycroft came unraveled.  Softly, the younger man collapsed into the blonde's lap as the first soft, somewhat repressed sob shook his besuited shoulders.  He was very nearly begging Neil not to leave him, promising everything and anything his poor broken heart could think of to get the other man to stay.  It was unbelievably beautiful; the combination of despair and pliancy making Neil desperate to drag Mycroft up and take explicit advantage of every sweet offer the younger man was making. ** **  
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Some people were undignified when they cried; twisted faces and uncomfortable expressions and deep, heaving gasps that were altogether too theatrical to be enjoyable.  Mycroft was something else entirely.  His staid, reserved nature did wonders to help him hold in the worst of the flood of emotion, only a few sleek tears trailing down his sculpted cheekbones, a few soft hiccoughs escaping his lips, and the lightest of tremors shaking his lovely shoulders.  It was an entirely appetizing sight, one that made the older blonde flush slightly with pleasure. ** **  
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Neil gently pushed Mycroft out of his lap, sliding off the mattress to sink down onto his knees next to his distraught partner.  Carefully, he wiped the tear streaks from the sides of Mycroft's cheeks with the pads of his thumbs before placing his broad hands underneath the other student's chin.  Pulling slightly, he brought Mycroft's face up, meeting that bereft blue gaze with his own lonely stare. ** **  
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"Shhh," he soothed, tone completely devoid of all earlier venom.  "I know you try, Mycroft.  I know.  I shouldn't take things so personally; it really isn't your fault that you just don't understand the way the heart works."  Lightly, he planted a kiss on the younger man's forehead, before moving to place a very small, chaste kiss on his lips.  "It's not how you're built and I knew that when we started down this road together.  I knew I'd have to be careful, that I'd have to watch after my own heart because you simply wouldn't know how.  I reacted poorly because I was devastated by how you've been treating me lately. That, and I can't stand the thought of you leaving me for someone else."  He placed another series of small, apologetic kisses across the span of Mycroft's mouth, stroking one hand lovingly down the side of his still-damp cheek. ** **  
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"You don't have to subjugate yourself to my every demand to make me happy, you know.  That's not what this is about.  Just try to think of what would make me happy sometimes, ok?  Now, I'm sorry for my reaction, and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.  It seems like you're sorry, and I certainly forgive you.  Perhaps this is a good time to kiss and make up?" ** **  
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~~~~~~~ ** **  
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A counterargument to the statement that Neil was his abuser was on the tip of Mycroft's tongue as soon as the words were out of Greg's mouth, but he swallowed it again. He knew Greg was right. There was no other way to describe the way the older man had treated him throughout their relationship and treated him now; it was abuse, quite simply. Hell, the man had driven Mycroft to a suicide attempt, it was hardly like they had a typical relationship.

Mycroft risked a glance over at the DI and saw that his eyes were closed, exhaustion wrought into every line of his face. Greg looked wrung-out, like he had gone through hell and back again and was quite content to just sleep it all off forever. Mycroft tore his eyes away again before those long lashes could flutter open, instead choosing to let his gaze go anywhere but back over to Greg, especially once he could feel the weight of those chestnut eyes on him again. And with the words that were coming out of the DI's mouth, perhaps it was best that he kept his attention focused elsewhere.

Because somehow, for some unfathomable reason, in some impossible way, Greg still had feelings for him. Mycroft wasn't sure how that was possible after everything that had gone on over the past few days, but there was no doubt that currently Greg was saying that he still had feelings for Mycroft, and wasn't expecting reciprocation from him but wanted him to know that he deserved better than Neil Gibson, and that Greg wasn't the only one who thought so. An ache started in Mycroft's chest, and he nearly turned and spilled everything out to Greg right then and there, the past and the present and his own feelings and everything that he'd been holding inside so long to the point of exhaustion. But he held it back. There might have been a few cracks in his defensive walls, but they weren't broken yet.

This wasn't for himself. If Mycroft was acting out of his own desires, he would have folded to Greg and practically begged the other man for his companionship. But he couldn't do that to Greg. He couldn't place the tremendous psychological baggage he had on the other man and expect him not to fold under the weight, he couldn't expose Greg to the ice and cold that lay where his heart should be, he couldn't let Greg go the way of so many other relationships before him. If he were to date Greg, it would end badly. He would end up sucking all of the life force out of the other man, exhausting him and leaving him confused, hurt, and broken. No, he wouldn't do that to Greg. He couldn't. So he had to shut Greg down completely, as much as it was going to hurt.

"Gregory," he started, staring blankly at the wall across from his bed so he wouldn't have to look at the other man, "both my brother and I share a particularly valuable skill that allows us to see the outcome of situations far ahead of time. We can look at the first move in a chess game and tell you who's going to win and quite possibly how, we can tell you years ahead of time who will win a war, and we can predict how people will behave in situations they've never been in before. Because of this skill, I can tell you exactly how the entirety of a romantic relationship between the two of us would go."

"It would start out nicely enough; even with this whole sordid affair, you're a good man and you would be committed to helping me recover from the ordeal. We would take things slowly romantically as both of us healed, though eventually progress to the level of a committed monogamous relationship. The more time you spent with me, however, the more frustrated you would become by my behavior. I would shut you out as I do everyone and you would continue to try to breach my defenses, determined to get me to open up to you, sure that you'll be the one who's different. As time goes on, you would become increasingly resentful of how closed off I am, and take up drinking seriously again."

"You would begin to realize over time that I don't possess the capacity to truly care for anyone beyond my brother, and this revelation will crush you. You would deny it at first, try to convince yourself that there's evidence that I do care for you, but eventually you would realize that I will never feel the same about you as you do about me. You would get tired of constantly being put upon, constantly having to deal with my issues and flaws while getting nothing in return, and at some point the scales would tip too far one way and you would leave. I would understand, of course, because everyone leaves at some point, and you would as well. Now, if he's not in prison at this time, who do you think would be the first person that I would turn to? The only one that I had left?" He turned to face Greg, a type of icy calm in his gaze, like the sea of his eyes had suddenly frozen over. "I know how this ends, and the answer is not well for either of us. I am merely attempting to save us both the trouble of wasting our time and earning more scars."

~~~~~~~~~~~

For one terrifying moment, Mycroft thought that Neil was going to reject him entirely as he pushed Mycroft off his lap. But in the next moment he knelt down next to the younger man, taking Mycroft's face in his hands so gently and wiping away his tears in a lovely, almost reverent way that made Mycroft's heart flutter feebly in his chest. When Neil spoke his voice was as soft and gentle as his hands, and Mycroft listened with a growing feeling of relief as he calmly explained that it was alright, that he understood, that it was okay that Mycroft was the way that he was. Neil sounded so very reasonable when he said that he just wanted Mycroft to consider his feelings more, and Mycroft wondered how he had thought Neil was even a little bit in the wrong in the first place. Everything he was saying sounded so rational and genuine, it was hard to blame him for having such a strong reaction.

"Of course I forgive you," Mycroft said, giving Neil a small, watery smile. "I'm just glad that you forgive me. I am sorry, truly, about the mess I made of this. I guess...I guess I need to work on considering your feelings more, and I will work on that, I promise. There's really no chance of you losing me to another person, Neil, I hope you know that." He bit his lip slightly, insecurities rising up again as he considered the very likely possibility of Neil leaving him instead. The thought set his hands to shaking, and he had to clench them against the expensive fabric of his trousers to get them to stop.

"I just...I'm so afraid of losing you. I know I might not show it well, but you do mean quite a lot to me and I don't want to lose what we have." He looked up at Neil through tear-soaked lashes, sincerity written across his features. "So if there's anything else I can do to make you happy, I do want to do it. Usually I just don't know how. So yes, please, let's kiss and make up." He smiled slightly again and leaned up so he could wrap his arms around the older man's neck, pulling him close in an embrace that held a hint of his desperation for close personal contact. He needed Neil, and this, and he would do whatever he could to keep it. ** **  
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~~~~~~~~~~~

Greg could feel his jaw drop slightly as Mycroft went through and dismantled their potential relationship piece by piece.  Mycroft wouldn't even look at him when he ran down the entire list of troubles they'd experience; instead the man kept his blue-grey gaze completely blank, focused only on the wall across from them.  It was hard for the DI not to give in to the terrible sorrow digging its claws into his heart as the auburn haired man laid out each of the flaws and fault-lines, laying them bare with ruthless efficiency.  The heartache he felt wasn't exactly for himself, though.  Not really.  It wasn't lost on the DI that Mycroft painted himself as the villain in every single one of the potential scenarios he laid out, and that more than anything told Greg exactly what the politician thought of himself. ** **  
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 _Heartless.  Unable to care._  God.  Mycroft truly felt he had nothing to offer.  What the fuck had Neil done to convince the man he didn't, or couldn't reciprocate emotions?   It was the most blatantly untrue thing Greg had heard in quite some time.  Obviously Mycroft cared for Sherlock.  Anthea as well.  And there had been the start of something between them; it certainly wasn't all in Greg's head.  The way that Mycroft's eyes had burned into his when the man kissed the back of his hand at the pub stuck in his mind.  No, those were **not** the eyes of someone that wasn't capable of reciprocation.  Not at all.  And besides, if anyone were to fuck things up between them it would likely be Greg.  Not on purpose, but just by being who he was.  A little too plain, a little too boring for someone of Mycroft's intelligence.  A bit too uncultured, a touch too rough around the edges.  No, if things ever did fall to pieces between them it would be because of Greg's lack, not Mycroft's.  He would invariably find someone better suited to him, likely in the political sphere where he spent so much of his time.  In fact, it was an absolute wonder that the man hadn't had about a dozen suitors lined up already. ** **  
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"Is that the way you think things would really go between us?"  Greg knew his voice had taken on a dangerously quiet edge, but he couldn't quite help it.  He was stuck somewhere between outright despair and smoldering anger over the entire situation.  It was hard not to feel robbed of the amazing potential that he, no... that they had _ **both**_ felt earlier.  Whatever happened to Mycroft, whatever Neil had done, it had managed to not only strip all that away but left Mycroft bereft of some vital sense of self in the process.  "Because if it **isn't** just some misguided attempt to put me off, I have to say I disagree.  We were really happy together the other night.  You were anything but closed off.  Hell, even when you were trying to shut me out before you left the hospital, you weren't all that successful.  Nothing's changed since then, except that Neil's gone out of his way to poison you against yourself." ** **  
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"Look, like I said.  I'm not trying to get you to reciprocate here.  I mean, I'd be delighted if you did, even after everything you just said.  But it's not... that's not.. it isn't the point.  I just can't believe you'd take a pass on something that I thought you wanted, simply because you **think** it isn't going to end well.  That's right, I said 'think'.  Because you can't know, not for sure.  You're incredibly intelligent, Mycroft Holmes, but you're not psychic.  You have no idea how things would end up between us."  Mycroft was still glaring at him with the glacial expression he’d adopted when he first resumed eye contact, but Greg held his own gaze steady.  "And you're obviously not capable of being objective in this instance, anyway.  So I tell you what.  I'll drop it entirely, never talk about my feelings for you again, if Sherlock agrees with your assessment of the trajectory of our relationship.  He doesn't have a horse in this race; he couldn't care less about your dating life I'm sure.  And he doesn't particularly care about my feelings; he'd have no qualms about telling me if you were right.  In fact, we've had a bit of a row earlier so I think he might actually enjoy it." ** **  
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"But if he doesn't agree with you, then you agree to go on one more date with me.  Just one.  After we're both out of here.  Back to the same damned pub for all I care.  We had something going between us, and I'm willing to bet a little future unhappiness that we could spark it up again.  Because I flat out don't believe you when you say that you lack the capacity to reciprocate feelings.  I've seen so much evidence to the contrary in the past forty eight hours alone that refutes your claim.  And anyways," he added gruffly, "I think spending some time with you, even if it wasn't forever, certainly wouldn't be a waste.  In fact, I'm damn sure it'd be worth a few scars." ** **  
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~~~~~~ ** **  
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As he reassured the younger man, Mycroft’s tears flowed even harder.  First born of sorrow, then out of relief.  God, had there ever been a more beautiful sight?  The way that the droplets clung to the ends of his auburn lashes just so before spilling down his sculpted cheeks was sinful.  The small, uncertain smile.  The tremor in his voice as he promised again and again that he'd do anything to make Neil happy.  The older student was nearly euphoric; absolutely drunk off the success of his ploy.  Fantastic.  A few more arguments like these, and his little pet genius would be even further under his thumb.  It didn't help that the idea of seeing Mycroft completely broken down like this was immensely appealing.  The distraught auburn haired young man was the perfect combination of wounded and pliant, and it sent shivers of pleasure through Neil's spine the likes of which he'd never felt before.  Long arms wound around Neil's neck, pulling him into a kiss that was half as impassioned as it was desperate, and the older student finally allowed himself to smile. ** **  
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"Shh, pet."  He whispered when the kiss finally broke, nuzzling into the side of Mycroft's temple so he could speak directly into his ear.  "You do make me happy, especially when you're actually trying.  I'm not going anywhere.  I'm right here.  Besides," he said, tone only half joking.  "Look at us.  I'm an absolute wreck.  And you; who else would put up with you but me?  We're sort of made for each other, don't you think?"  Before the younger man could answer, Neil started to kiss his way around the outer shell of Mycroft's ear, enjoying the little shivers each brush of flesh against flesh produced. ** **  
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"And besides, you know what the very best part of any argument is?" Neil purred, voice velvety and smooth as he continued to let his lips travel down the pale column of Mycroft's throat.  "The makeup sex.  Now come here," he insisted, winding his arms around the other man's slender waist to tug him even closer.  "You're way too far away from me for my liking.  So come a bit closer and tell me that you're mine, and only mine." ** **  
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~~~~~~~~ ** **  
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"Fine," Mycroft said almost instantly after Greg finished speaking. "I'm perfectly content to consult Sherlock on the matter before I rule out the possibility completely. We'll hear his opinion, and if he disagrees with me I will be a gracious loser and take you out on one more date." Oh, Greg had made a critical mistake. He'd assumed that Sherlock was an unbiased outside observer, when that couldn't be farther from the truth. Mycroft knew his brother extremely, painfully well, and knew that the thought of his brother dating the DI he consulted for would drive Sherlock absolutely crazy. It would combine two forces that were already a nuisance to him in terms of checking up on him incessantly, and it would give Mycroft an excuse to stop by crime scenes and interfere with Sherlock's 'work'.

And that was if Sherlock didn't actually see the same path that Mycroft saw. Most likely, the younger man wouldn't be able to comment on his brother's emotional side of things, but he could certainly see the potential flaws and pitfalls in the relationship. He would be able to see that Mycroft, damaged as he was, would ruin any potential he had with Greg, and that Greg would only be able to take so much before he finally left. Sherlock would agree with Mycroft, Greg would be saved from any future harm caused by Mycroft, and Mycroft could return to Neil with the knowledge that he wouldn't be able to hurt anyone anymore. Eventually Greg would recover from this, and at some point the aching feeling in Mycroft's chest at the thought of losing Greg would go away. It had to, right?

Of course there was also the chance, though small, that Sherlock would agree with Greg. Most likely out of spite, as a way to lash out at his brother for this entire mess involving Neil. It would be a way to indirectly strike at Neil too, since Mycroft going out again with Greg after everything that had happened would make the older man absolutely incensed. It really would be a sign that Mycroft won, at least until the relationship broke down and Mycroft went back to Neil anyway. So, Sherlock could very likely disagree with Mycroft just to get back at both of them. Because surely he wouldn't actually see any kind of positive future between Greg and Mycroft. It just wasn't possible. Mycroft knew beyond a doubt that he'd ruin the relationship sooner or later, simply because he wasn't equipped to handle relationships, and he never managed to let his guard down enough to let someone in. Not since Neil.

Though that wasn't entirely true, as Greg was so unhelpfully reminding him. He had managed to open up to Greg over the course of their date, had surprised himself with how easy it was to let Greg in. And yes, even when he had to shut Greg out on Neil's orders, even when he was purposely trying to push him away before he left the hospital, he hadn't quite been successful. Greg just had a way of slipping past his defenses without Mycroft even realizing he'd done it until it was too late. He actually had the potential to be different from everyone else Mycroft dated, and that was why it was so hard to deny that he wanted this. Because he did. He wanted to be normal with Greg so badly that it _hurt_ , but he couldn't do that to the other man. Greg didn't deserve it.

Mycroft sighed slightly, the mask slipping for a second and showing a bone-deep weariness that was slowly dragging him underwater again. "Though honestly, I'm not saying these things for my own benefit, Gregory. I'm saying them for yours. You're too good of a man to be hurt that way. It's better that you understand that the best possible place for you is as far away from men like me as possible. You deserve more than a relationship with me that would only hurt you." He rubbed his forehead with his hand as if trying to rub out the worried wrinkles there. Another sigh. "Really, I'm acting in your best interests. It doesn't matter what I want, in the end, if it's going to hurt you. And I know I would hurt you."

~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft had actually known for quite some time, but had mostly refused to even consider the possibility because the truth hurt too much. It finally got to the point where he couldn't ignore it anymore, when they'd been dating for about  six months, and he left Neil. He should have known, really, that it wouldn't last. He'd believed Neil when Neil promised exclusivity and monogamy despite his cheating past, and that had been his first mistake. A leopard didn't change its spots, and Neil couldn't keep his hands to himself--or himself and Mycroft--if he tried. And despite everything else that Mycroft had forgiven in the past few months, no matter what Neil had managed to convince him of, this was the one thing he couldn't forgive. Neil had promised him an exclusive relationship. He'd even accused Mycroft of cheating, knowing full well that the younger student was too smitten and committed to ever even think about such a thing.

It was sick, was what it was. The whole thing set Mycroft's blood boiling in a way that it hadn't since before the start of his relationship with Neil. It made his movements quick, efficient, and angry as he packed the few things he had in a drawer in Neil's flat, the apartment empty as he'd chosen to make his exit before Neil came home. He knew that if he had to actually face the man he would either entirely lose his temper or, more likely, Neil would try to wheedle his way out of it and draw Mycroft back in under his spell. Mycroft wasn't having any of it. Neil had cheated, he had broken his promise, and he didn't deserve to have his cake and eat it too. He could have Mycroft if he wanted, but not anyone else. Apparently that was too difficult for the older man.

Mycroft knew that later his anger would turn to tears and he'd cry himself silly over this--or as close to crying as he got these days--or he'd simply eat his feelings away, find something sugary and drown in it for awhile. Right now, however, he was practically humming with fury, eyes smoldering as he cast his gaze around the flat to look for anything he'd left, picking up subtle tells of Neil's infidelity that he'd noticed before and dismissed. Everything here seemed to be a blazing beacon to what Neil had done, and it was making Mycroft feel slightly sick. He had to get out now, but he'd barely opened the door when he almost ran into Neil, the older student holding his keys in his hand as if he was about to unlock the door.

"Oh," was all Mycroft said at first, and then he smiled bitterly and dropped Neil's spare key into the man's free hand. "I was going to leave this on your coffee table, but I suppose it's better that I give it to you in person. Now you can give it to that charming boy you've been seeing, what was his name? William? Right, William. Have fun with him, the two of you seem to make an excellent couple. Or at least seem to be having plenty of fun fucking. And now I won't be in your way, so you can even take him back here if you want. Isn't that lovely for you?" The look in those green eyes was absolutely fucking worth running into Neil on the way out. Mycroft was feeling so damn good about this. "Please, just do me a favor and lose my number, Neil. You won't have any use for it as I have no intention of ever speaking to you again. Goodbye." And with that, his speech done and his piece said, he moved to slip out the doorway past Neil and wash his hands of the whole affair. ** **  
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~~~~~~~ ** **  
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The speed with which Mycroft agreed to have Sherlock arbitrate their disagreement about his projection of their potential relationship disturbed Greg.  He had expected the politician to outright dismiss the notion altogether, or at the very least put up some sort of resistance.  Mycroft's near-instant agreement had the DI wondering exactly what it was about the situation that he hadn't thought of.  Sherlock certainly wasn't apt to side with Mycroft just because the man was his brother; in fact the opposite was closer to the truth.  Unless... Would Sherlock would deny that his brother was capable of having feelings or caring for anyone else out of jealousy?  Or perhaps fear that if Mycroft's attentions shifted he'd lose the attentions of the person that cared about him the most? ** **  
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 _Oh shit._  Lestrade's heart briefly twinged when he thought about how vehement the younger Holmes was when he fought with Greg about Mycroft's condition when he first arrived back at the hospital.  That was largely because the truth was being withheld from him, though.  In fact Sherlock had gone so far as to state that Lestrade had absolutely no right to be taking part in his brother's care. _Fuck, fuck, fuck.  Well, I just completely and totally fucked this up in an extraordinary way.  Of course Sherlock doesn't want me to be involved with his brother.  He can hardly stand me as it is, and if I didn't have access to cases and crime scenes he wouldn't put up with me at all.  On top of that our time here hasn't exactly been conflict free.  Fan-fucking-tastic.  I'm leaving this all in the hands of a man who not only can't stand me, but probably has the emotional intelligence of a fourth grader. ** **  
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He wasn't asking Sherlock to stamp his approval on their potential relationship, though.  He just wanted someone else, someone who didn't have any vested interest in seeing Mycroft end up with Greg (or anyone else for that matter), to let the bloody stubborn auburn haired man know that looking in from the outside it was very, very obvious that he did indeed feel the full gamut of human emotion.  Whatever reason Mycroft had to feel so secure that his brother would side with him, Greg knew (well, strongly hoped) that he had one better.  The raven haired detective was more interested in the truth above anything else.  The DI had seen the young man run himself ragged in pursuit of it; driving forward when most other people would have stopped seeking it out long ago.  It wasn't just an answer to the puzzles that Sherlock sought, it was having the **right** answer.  Even if his own personal interests made him feel compelled to lie to his older brother, Greg strongly counted on the younger Holmes to tell him the truth anyway.  If there was one constant in the universe it was that Sherlock was Sherlock and the truth, no matter how inappropriate, unpleasant, or unwelcome, would always be spoken.   ** **  
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Still, Lestrade got the distinct image of Anthea pressing her lips together and giving him a disapproving frown.  It was a risk; but Mycroft really did need to hear from someone other than Greg that his feelings existed.  The silver haired DI prayed to any god he thought might be listening that Sherlock realized what it was that Greg was actually hoping for.  And even if he did go with simply projecting the course of their relationship, he'd at least be able to note that while things would inevitably fall apart, it wouldn't have anything to do with Mycroft of his lack of emotional capacity.  The thought of having Sherlock run down all the ways in which Greg was ill-suited to be a long term partner for Mycroft made him a little sick.  But if it gave Mycroft another reason to believe that he wasn't some sort of cold, emotionless shell of a person, it would be worth it.  In fact, Greg was so focused on trying to figure out what to do if his plan failed that he very nearly missed Mycroft's hardened shell slipping.  Wide brown eyes flicked upward, meeting steely blue-grey as a grin broke out over his face. ** **  
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"It doesn't matter what you want?"  Greg's face became a bit more serious, but he still retained the hints of his previous smile.   "Oh, you incredibly brilliant idiot.  It doesn't matter to **you** what you want, but what you want matters a great deal to **me**.  Look, I'm a grown man.  I've been married and divorced.  And you know what?  For as absolutely wretched as things were towards the end I wouldn't give up the parts that were good for anything, and that's not just lip service.  Those early years with Janice were some of the very best in my entire life.  Losing her was awful.  But sometimes things don't work out, and only a scant handfuls of relationships last forever."  Greg gave a small sigh, and scrubbed his hand through his short silver hair.  "You're right.  You **are** bound to hurt my feelings, or the feelings of whoever you decide to pursue things with.  It doesn't make you some sort of coldblooded monster.  Guess what?  I'll hurt yours too.  I won't mean to, but god knows it's true.  I'm kind of an ox when it comes to emotional things.  I've got a bit of a temper, especially when I'm tired.  We'll fight.  We might not last.  But I'm telling you right now that I think about how fucking **happy** I felt with you back at the pub and I know, in the core of me, that every single spat would be worth it to feel like that again.  Because that's what I want.  To spend some time with you.  Walk through life together awhile.  And I really, sincerely hope that if you're serious about your hesitation being on my account that you drop that nonsense immediately.  If you need to protect yourself after what happened, I understand.  If you're not ready to move on, or if you want to just be alone for awhile, I get that.  But don't you **dare** use me and my 'feelings' as an excuse to shut this down before it's even got a chance to begin." ** **  
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"Anyway," the DI grumbled.  "If it's hurting me you're really worried about you'd stop thinking so poorly of yourself.  You're the most amazing man I've ever met.  It kills me knowing that you can't see your own worth.  Also, not shutting me out all the time would be a good start too, if you're taking suggestions," he offered with a small smile. ** **  
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~~~~~~~ ** **  
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Neil knew he couldn't disguise the absolute look of shock that passed over his face as his front door opened, revealing a rather angry Mycroft Holmes.  The auburn haired young man went on a bit of a tirade, and it took the older blonde a moment to realize what he was talking about.  Oh.  Right.  Mycroft had finally figured out what he was doing with William.  Well, that wasn't entirely surprising.  In fact the only shock about the whole situation, other than the normally timid young man showing up at Neil's apartment to confront him, was the fact that it had taken as long as it did for the lovesick little genius to figure out what had been going on behind his back.  As Mycroft went to brush past him Neil spun, catching the younger man's pale wrist with strong fingers.  With a little tug, he managed to yank Mycroft back into the door frame, smiling wickedly down at the younger man with a cruel smile on his lips.  He'd been waiting several weeks for Mycroft to notice his infidelity.  Each day that passed he thought of more and more hurtful things to say, simply because he could.  Because Mycroft was pretty when he cried.  And because he needed to test and see just how far he could push the younger man and still draw him back in.  Because it was summer, and classes were off and well, he was just a touch bored. ** **  
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"Oh Mikey," he purred, using the nickname that he knew Mycroft hated the most just to get a bit more of a rise out of him.  "I really think you should keep this.  After all, you'll need it when you decide to come crawling back."  He slipped the key to his apartment back into the hand that he held captive, pressing the cold bit of metal into Mycroft's palm before using his strong fingers to guide the smaller man's hand into curling back up around the key. ** **  
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"Oh yes, please.  Go on.  Cry about how cruel I've been to you to your large circle of supportive, caring friends.  Oh!  Or better yet, go lean on your freakishly formal family for some support.  I'm sure that they'd be more than happy to cosset and console you; after all they've certainly done such a good job of caring for you before."  Using the weight of his body, Neil stepped forward to close the distance between them and pressed Mycroft up against the open door, the way they melded together a direct mockery of the intimacy they had previously shared.  Whether from muscle memory or shock, it was hard to say, but the younger student didn't immediately shove him away so Neil moved in closer, pressing his lips up against the pale curve of Mycroft's ear. ** **  
****

"Face it, Mikey.  I'm the only person that can stand you.  And unfortunately for you, you broken little robot, you can't feel anything for anyone but you can't stand to be alone.  Quite the quandary, isn't it?  Nobody else is going to put up with that, you know.  The way that you're icy and completely closed off, incapable of reciprocating even the most basic of human affections one minute, then weeping about how alone you are the next.  Honestly, I'm surprised that I've made it this far without telling you off.  But I felt **bad** for you.  You can't stand to be alone and nobody else can stand to be around you.  It was so... pathetic.  It'd be like kicking out a stray that followed you home.  And unlike you Mycroft, I'm not actually heartless."  After he whispered his litany of barbs Neil stepped back, a satisfied smile playing across his lips. ** **  
****

"So why don't you run off back to your lonely little dorm room and have a good cry and a cupcake, pet.  When you're ready to admit that you can't stand being without me because I'm the only person in your life that hasn't spoken to you with disgust, scorn, or outright fear in the last six months you can come on back, and we'll talk about how you can go about apologizing to me for putting me through so much bullshit."  Withdrawing his fingers from Mycroft's wrist, Neil drew back completely, giving the younger man an offhanded wave as he turned his back and stepped into his flat, sprawling out on the couch, lounging like a house-cat that had grown bored of batting about its prey. ** **  
****

"And as for William, you know what?  He's a decent fuck.  You're better, but honestly there's only so much one can wring out of a glacier, Mikey.  You're right.  I did step out, and I'm actually a bit sorry about that.  It wasn't my intention; it just sort of happened.  And it was a mistake.  I should have broken up with you first.  But don't pretend for a minute that you're blameless in all this.  After all, you can't blame someone for needing a little human warmth." ** **  
****

~~~~~~~~~ ** **  
****

Mycroft had been prepared for any number of Greg's reactions to what he said, but absolutely none of them included the grin that broke out over the DI's face. Was...was Greg going to laugh at him? Well, sort of, if the phrase 'you incredibly brilliant idiot' was anything to go on. But though the DI was smiling, his tone held no malice. No, he was honestly trying to convince Mycroft that he would gladly accept the risks of getting hurt by him to pursue a relationship with him. That it would be worth it. The other man actually sounded a bit miffed when he practically commanded Mycroft not to use him as an excuse.

But what really got to Mycroft was when the gruff DI told him it hurt him that Mycroft had such a low opinion of himself. And then requested not to be shut out, with just a shadow of a smile. Something warm and vaguely familiar filled his chest; hope. God, it had been so long since he'd been this hopeful of something. Well, no, actually, he had been this hopeful with Greg before, at the pub, he'd just buried it so deeply down inside of himself that he'd almost forgotten how nice Greg made him feel. How special. But as soon as that thought crossed his mind, there was Neil's voice at the back of his head again, whispering, _You don't deserve love, you don't have a heart, I'm the only one who will ever want you, you'll only hurt him if you stay._ And just like that, the delicate hope blooming in his chest was crushed again, depression settling like a heavy fog over his mind and heart.

Right. No matter what Greg said, it wasn't alright that Mycroft would hurt him. Greg was underestimating exactly what Mycroft was capable of, even without aiming to cause damage. If Mycroft really wanted to hurt someone, he could easily, effortlessly cut them to the bone without even thinking about it. Except for Neil. No matter how hard he had tried--and there had been times when he tried extremely, extremely hard on certain occasions--he had never managed to hurt Neil. The older man would let him get it all out, let him rant and rave as much as he wanted, and then shut him down with a few phrases. Every time. He supposed it was because Neil was a psychopath and while he could feel anger very well, he couldn't really be hurt. So whenever Mycroft had wanted to hurt him, he had just made him angry instead, with mixed results.

Mycroft bit back a sigh, seeing the kind honesty in Greg's eyes. Maybe it would at least be fair for him to give a little back to the DI for his efforts, even if he was still planning on distancing himself from the other man so as to not hurt him. "Shutting people out was something that I always excelled at, Gregory, and it protects me exceedingly well. I chose to let Neil in, and we both know how well that turned out." He turned away from the DI again, choosing to look up at the ceiling as he breathed in deeply and sighed on the exhale. "I wouldn't be surprised if you had any lingering questions about my relationship with Neil or my time in captivity with him. While I'm sure you wouldn't be happy with any of the answers you'll receive, I can answer a few questions, if you wish."

~~~~~~~~

Mycroft was both surprised and a little dazed when Neil pulled him back, effectively trapping him against the door and forcing the key back into his hand. Cruel words were immediately spilling from the older student's mouth and Mycroft steeled himself, knowing that Neil could cut when he tried. But apparently he had been holding back on Mycroft, because Mycroft was not at all prepared for the words that came out of Neil's mouth as the older student pressed up against him, leaning close to press his lips against Mycroft's ear and start whispering pure poison.

God...Neil had dated him out of _pity_. That hit Mycroft harder than anything else. The thought that Neil had taken pity on him, had seen him as some sort of wounded pet that needed to be looked after...That was nearly enough to tear his heart to pieces without the reminder that aside from Neil, he had no one else. The blonde was right; Mycroft didn't have any friends to speak of, and his family wasn't exactly the definition of supportive. There was Sherlock, but Sherlock was still young and sorting things out. He wasn't exactly equipped to handle Mycroft's adult, emotional issues. So. Without Neil, he would be entirely alone again. And Neil knew it, stepping away with a smirk and dismissing Mycroft with a wave like he really was Neil's pet, all while telling him that he knew Mycroft would come crawling back, and he could _apologize_ when he did so.

By the time that Neil had reached the couch, Mycroft's vision was blurring with tears, the urge to cry clawing its way up his throat and making breathing difficult. But when Neil had the audacity to imply that his infidelity was Mycroft's fault, those tears turned to tears of rage, and Mycroft turned and positively _hurled_ Neil's spare keys at him, the set hitting his stomach with a satisfying thump. "Was that it, then?" he asked, teetering on the edge between rage and despair. "You took _pity_ on me? No, you may be a heartless bastard but I don't believe that, Neil. If you really thought all of those things about me, then why would you have stayed with me?"

"You could have had someone like William, you could have had nearly everyone else, but you honestly worked towards keeping me. Even know you're telling me that I'll come back to you; if this was what you wanted, why would you want me to come back in the first place? You got what you wanted, then. I'm gone, I'm leaving. You wanted to break up with me regardless, right? Then you shouldn't care whether I come back or not. You can't have both, Neil. Either you dated me out of pity and are glad it's over, or you want me to come crawling back at some point. Unfortunately for you, it doesn't matter, because I won't be coming back. Not to you." ** **  
****

~~~~~~~~ ** **  
****

"Oh, you misunderstand.  I'm not saying I **want** you to come back.  Just that I know you **will**."  Neil answered Mycroft's wave of bitter, angry words with a coarse laugh, picking the keys up off his lap where they had fallen and twirling them idly around one finger.  "You know, you're almost cute when you're indignant.  It's almost like you're having some sort of real feeling in there.  But the whole thinking you're so clever really diminishes any of the charm."  Broad, tanned fingers dropped the key-ring onto the coffee table with a metallic clatter, and Neil leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers to support his chin as he smirked triumphantly at Mycroft from across the room. ** **  
****

"As for chasing after you yes, I'll admit to that  I did court you, seek you out.  But that was at first, back when I thought that you were just isolated, shy, and socially inept.  By the time I figured out that you were exactly what you seemed; cold, aloof, and blessed with an abundantly holier-than-thou attitude thanks to that massive intellect of yours, I had developed some fondness for you.  A sort of attachment, if you will."  Neil offered a sigh and a dismissive hand wave, pulling back to lounge on the leather couch once more, arranging himself in a carefully calculated but casual looking sprawl ** **  
****

"So yeah.  I didn't initially date you out of pity, but that's certainly what it became once I got to know your actual nature.  And as for being glad it's over?  I wouldn't say that I'm so much happy as I am simply relieved.  And to reiterate the most important part, I don't want you to come crawling back to me.  I've just prepared myself for the inevitability that you will.  You're too weak to stand on your own, and nobody else will put up with you.  Whether it's a matter of days or a matter of weeks, you'll show up here again, if only because you're desperate for someone who'll put up with you in more than a cursory way.  Flawed though you are, Mycroft Holmes, I'll put up with it.  Because you're not a half bad conversationalist and you're an excellent fuck."  With a bored look and another dismissive wave, Neil yawned then gestured towards the door ** **  
****

"So goodbye for now, Mikey.  Go on then.  Enjoy your isolation, and do try not to fall too far into a pit of self loathing when you realize how much of what I've said is true.  While you do deserve to feel a little put out, you know what depression does for your appetite.  Don't fuck up your looks; strange though they are you're still reasonably attractive and it's one of the only things you have working in your favor."  With one final smug grin, Neil gathered himself and rose off the couch and headed towards the bedroom, not even bothering to watch Mycroft actually leave. ** **  
****

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ** **  
****

"No," he said carefully, meeting Mycroft's gaze.  "I don't really have any questions about your time in captivity.  The details of what you went through are yours and yours alone, and I'm not going to have you share them with me just because you feel like you **have** to."  The DI pursed his lips for a moment, trying to gather up his thoughts so he could properly express himself.  It seemed so odd, to refuse to request information when he just asked Mycroft to open up to him some, but Greg recognized the gesture for what it was.  A pittance of sorts; a touch of personal information about events and circumstances offered so that Greg could remain distracted from the actual emotional impact that Mycroft's time in captivity had on the man. ** **  
****

"If you want to tell me what happened, that's absolutely fine.  I'd want to hear it.  But not out of curiosity, Mycroft.  Out of a genuine desire to help you, to understand, and to help you heal.  So, uh.  As backwards as this is going to sound after I just said I wanted you to open up some I don't have any questions about what you went through.  Not exactly.  If you want to talk about what happened, what he did, I'm here for you.  I'd gladly do that.  In fact I'd welcome the chance to refute any fucked up things he told you."  Greg could feel his eyebrows knit together at the last statement.  Just imagining what sort of psychological abuse the blonde psychopath heaped on Mycroft was distressing  And he was pretty sure that his imagination couldn't come anywhere close to the truth. ** **  
****

"As far as your prior relationship with Neil goes, there're plenty of things that I want to know, sure.  But you don't need to share them with me because you feel like you have to.  If you don't want to talk about that stuff, I understand.  I do.  You value your privacy a great deal, and because it's important to you it's important to me too."  Greg winced.  God, he was mincing this terribly.  On one hand he wanted quite badly to know what had happened, but on the other hand he didn't want Mycroft to feel obligated to tell him any of it.  That kind of forced openness would do more damage than good.  The last thing Lestrade wanted was for Mycroft to feel that his hand was being forced, to feel like he was being coerced into something that he didn't really want to do. ** **  
****

"I guess what I'm saying is this.  If you want to talk about it, about any of it, the way we were talking to each other back in the pub I'd be so fucking grateful and happy to listen that I don't quite know what I'd do with myself.  But... I don't want you to feel like you have to go through some sort of post-trauma Q &A with me.  You can tell me what you want, on your terms.  And if that's nothing, then I'll respect that decision.  It won't stop me from trying to change your mind about other things.  Like your unjustified low opinion of yourself.  I'll still do that because I'm a stubborn old bastard and if you're not going to look out for yourself then somebody has to.  But I'm not going to pry." ** **  
****

"I hope that makes sense," he offered with a bit of an abashed half-grin.  "I'm not shutting you out, I want you to know that.  I just don't want you to think that...." Greg gave a sort of frustrated growl, bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose before casting a crooked smile in Mycroft's direction.  "Ugh.  Emotional intricacies are hard.  I'm much better with facts.  I care about you, a lot.  I want to know what happened, both now and in the past, so I can help.  But I'm not going to ask you to talk about something you're clearly uncomfortable discussing, because that's not right either.  So you get to decide what you want to tell me about any of it.  Ok?" ** **  
****

~~~~~~~~~ ** **  
****

Mycroft hated himself for the fact that he couldn't respond to the things that Neil said. For the way that he just stood there, letting this man that he'd thought cared about him, _really_ cared about him, tear him down to his bones in mere seconds. It wouldn't do to call Neil a predator, because Mycroft doubted that even most predators took this much pleasure in dismantling their victims. There was no word that he could find that truly encapsulated Neil, no matter what language he looked for it in. Psychopath. Sadist. Schadenfreude didn't even cover the delight Neil took in his misery. Though it didn't seem like delight, oh no. Neil was very careful to look casually disinterested as he eviscerated him, but Mycroft could see it in the gleam of his verdant eyes.

Neil enjoyed this. Neil honestly, truly enjoyed breaking him down like this. Maybe that had been the truth from the very beginning. Maybe Neil had only ever become interested in him because he wanted to take him apart. Mycroft's chest ached hollowly as he thought about it, knowing it was the truth, his head beginning to spin. A weaker man would have fainted. Yes, Neil had only been out to destroy him from the very beginning--but for what purpose? What did he gain from breaking Mycroft into his individual components and then telling him why each piece was worse than the last.

 _Control_. Of course. It had been there in every cruel barb, in every possessive behavior, in every demand for more of Mycroft's time, even, shamefully, in every arousing touch and breathy command. Neil had been gaining control over him, and Mycroft had just let it happen. Let himself be kept, like he was some fucking pet for Neil's amusement. And oh god, he was, wasn't he? Performing his tricks on command like a good little pet, giving Neil the information he wanted while providing him with an 'excellent fuck' as Neil had put it. He had let himself be molded to Neil's whims and desires because he was desperate and when Neil was good, he was _so_ good. And Neil had known that. He had quite honestly played Mycroft Holmes. Like a fucking fiddle.

Neil had sauntered off to his bedroom already, leaving Mycroft reeling in the doorway in an effort to reconcile the multitude of thoughts crashing around his overworked brain. Sadly, the first one was that at least Neil was lying when he said he didn't want him. Because oh, Mycroft was certain now that he did. Why would Neil want the work of training someone else when Mycroft was already so perfectly behaved? Besides, no one could mimic Mycroft's observational skills, and he knew Neil was using those for more than a few underhanded things, try as he might to turn a blind eye. And, honestly, this was probably the most effort that Neil had ever put into a relationship. Certainly the most effort Mycroft had ever seen him put in. So, like everything else, his nonchalant dismissal of Mycroft was a manipulation. A game. Another piece to make Mycroft come crawling back, begging for forgiveness.

Numbly, Mycroft hiked his bag up on his shoulder again and left, not slamming the door as he would have done a minute ago but shutting it gently, the latch sliding into place with a soft click. It didn't matter, he thought as he walked away from the flat towards the elevator, if Neil did actually want him and was just trying not to show it, he wasn't going to go back to him. He couldn't, especially if he was right about all of this. Honestly, he'd just figured out that his boyfriend of six months had been using him and steadily shaping his life so he completely obeyed him, anyone else would have been out the door without a second glance! Actually, anyone else would have been out weeks ago. But Mycroft was Mycroft. And that meant lonely. Desperate. Mired in self-hatred that Neil only fed. God, that comment about his appetite...it made him want to vomit, his own self-hatred making him feel sick.

But none of that mattered. It couldn't. He had to stay strong on this one, because there was no way he could go back to Neil. He couldn't. He wouldn't. But as he boarded the elevator back down to the ground floor, this thought sounded hollow to even his own ears.

~~~~~~~~~

After Greg's little speech was done--the man never seemed to exactly be eloquent, but there was something charming in the way he forced out fragmented sentences--Mycroft spent a few moments in contemplative silence, considering Greg's words and definitely not thinking about the way the man's crooked smile made his heart flutter slightly. Now was not the time for that. There never would be a time for that, after all of this was over. _Not now, Mycroft._

Because despite Greg's words, Mycroft did feel obligated to give him something in return for...well, for everything, really. Mycroft hadn't forgotten that Greg had saved his life during the attack at the pub, nor had he forgotten the way that Greg had opened up to him that night in ways that couldn't have been easy for the gruff DI after his painful divorce. He wanted to give the man something in return for his patience, even if all he could offer at the moment were a few bitter pieces of memory.

"I would at least like to clarify a few things," he said after a minute, and cleared his throat, not liking how hesitant he sounded. He always spoke with certainty, this wasn't any different even if it made his chest seize up into a tight knot of tremendous pressure. "In regards to...the video. I was only in captivity for a short time and laid down to sleep for a while. Beset upon by nightmares, I awoke distraught and in pain from my injury. I requested a conference with Neil, and when he obliged me, I made a request for pain medication and he offered me a deal instead. In exchange for the medication, I had to--ah. Well. Demonstrate some of my more intimate tactics of diplomacy." God, that was probably the most polite way he could manage to put it, and he still blushed at the very thought of what had happened with Neil. Self-hatred rose at the back of his throat in the form of bile, and he hastened to continue.

"So you see, I did not intend for things to work out the way they did. Unfortunately, Neil has a certain...way with me, I suppose. A way of getting what he wants. And he usually only has to talk to me for a few minutes to achieve the desired effect." He paused, eyes closing for a second as he considered exactly how true that was. Neil always knew how to break him down efficiently. He'd learned every crack in the psyche of Mycroft Holmes over the course of their relationship, and evidently hadn't relinquished that information.

"As for what he told me...they were the same things he's told me since Uni. True things. That I'm heartless. Cruel. Incapable of love. That no one but him is able to put up with me for any length of time, and that I manage to hurt everyone that I'm with, in some way. Incapable of forming emotional attachments. But terrified to be alone." His voice sounded distant to his own ears, as if someone else was speaking these words and not him. It was so much easier to get through this if he could detach himself from it. "And that I belong with him. That I need him. Which, sadly, has so far proven to be true. Neil has pursued me across years and countless relationships on both our parts. You must admire his tenacity, if nothing else."

This last comment was dry, and Mycroft opened his eyes to look at Greg again, a mask dropped over those sea glass eyes. He didn't want Greg to see how much this had actually affected him, though surely Greg would be able to see at least some of the effect already. Mycroft was mostly trying to hide it for the sake of his own dignity, now. "It seems I will never truly be rid of Neil Gibson, and that's what he told me. Well, at least until afterwards. Afterwards he told me he never wanted to see me again and that we were really, officially through this time." He swallowed thickly, those words still cutting somewhere deep inside of him. "But I know that, once again, if I came back he'd accept me back, because this was always what he did. I would try to leave, he'd tell me good riddance and that I'd be back anyway, and eventually I would prove him right and hate myself for it."

"You mustn't think I was some sort of captive to him during my time at Uni; no, I willingly wore those chains. I did try to leave him, multiple times, but I might as well have never tried in the first place. He had and always will have a stranglehold on my life. He knows what I'll do before I do it, because he changed me while I was with him, into something better suited for his purposes. I suppose I should be angry with him, but I can't manage that. I'm just exhausted instead."


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the past reveals Mycroft's first attempt to leave Neil doesn't quite go as planned, while the present sees Greg try to undo some of the damage that has been done.
> 
> Warnings: Eating disorders, dub-con, emotionally abusive relationship, sadism, Uni-flashbacks, introspection, blackmail, kidnapping, "emotional torture porn", and general dark subject material.

He was proud of himself for lasting as long as he did. A month and a half without Neil was longer than the older man had predicted, and though it had been a struggle, Mycroft was at least proud of himself for holding out that long. Especially considering the eating disorder had started shortly after he left the other man, making his life just that much more difficult and bringing his already slim figure into an even more appealing shape.

That, at least, was something Mycroft knew he shouldn't be proud of himself for. Resisting the urge to binge during his depression would have been a pride-worthy achievement, not this. It wasn't starvation, no, he was technically still eating and enjoying the food he ate, but it all left his system so soon after he consumed it that it hardly counted as consumption. He was getting used to the taste of bile at the back of his mouth, and had taken to carrying around mints with him wherever he went so the signs of his sickness wouldn't be obvious to anyone who wasn't looking for them. Because it was a sickness. He knew that there was something inherently sick about forcing his body like this, pressing it to its limits by denying it food and usually sleep as well while demanding it work at its full capacity. It was amazing that he hadn't collapsed yet.

In fact, he looked better than usual. Slim, trim, neatly outfitted in clean-cut suits. He could almost pass for a normal person. The dead giveaway, however, was that he was entirely alone. Without Neil, he was left with quite literally no one. No friends. A distant and disinterested family. Peers that either reviled or feared him. Every passing day that he spent in isolation, he seemed to grow heavier, depression settling over him like a thick funeral pall. Drab, black, and all-consuming. He started to dream about Neil, just occasionally. A little, here and there. Some nights he positively ached for the older man. But no. He wasn't going to give up that easily, wasn't going to give Neil the satisfaction of seeing him crawl back to him and beg for forgiveness. Neil didn't deserve him, right? Or was it that he didn't deserve Neil? He, heartless, cold, distant Mycroft Holmes didn't deserve Neil Gibson. Oh, that sounded about right.

So one day, he did come back. He'd been wrestling with the idea for days now -- weeks if he was really being honest -- and he finally conceded one evening when he was missing Neil particularly hard and contemplating exactly how many days he could go without food before he died, and if that was even possible for him to do. Going back to Neil was at least a preferable option to starving to death. Because his disorder had slipped his figure past the point of appealing into something much less so, diminished to the point of nearly being gaunt. He couldn’t stop himself, though. Every inch off his waist, every pound was a victory. Even if he was showing externally how he was falling apart, it was still worth it. But his body was beginning to fall apart as well, the toll too heavy for him, the cost too dangerous. And he knew Neil could fix that. Stop him before he reached the breaking point.

He showed up on Neil's doorstep not long after the inevitable surrender he'd been just waiting for, and realized that Neil had been right when he told him to take the key for his inevitable return. God, that nearly started him crying right then and there. No, he thought as he knocked, it wouldn't do for him to come back to start crying right in front of Neil's door. It wasn't like he was going to his execution; if things went badly, he could always leave again, right?

\---------------------------------------

The few glimpses of Mycroft that Neil had caught over the past month or so were immensely satisfying. While the younger man had taken to avoiding Neil completely, barely coming out of his dorm for anything other than the occasional meal, and classes once those started back up again. Once the new semester was in full swing the older student managed to catch sight of his distraught ex in the hallways. The younger man moved like a ghost, taking extreme care not to interact with anyone or anything. He just glided silently through the hallways, looking more and more peaked as the weeks went on. And of course, Mycroft was still in their Advanced Physics course. The older blonde was careful not to make any eye contact, or to make any move that acknowledge Mycroft's existence. No, until the little genius came slinking back, he wasn't going to get a single shred of attention from Neil Gibson.

One thing he hadn't counted on was Mycroft's fortitude. Neil had been exaggerating when he said he thought that Mycroft might last more than a few days. Given how deeply he had wounded him and how isolated the insecure young man had allowed himself to become, Gibson hadn't really expected his pet project to make it for more than a few days without needing comfort. As the weeks slid by with no additional contact, Neil found himself getting restless, frustrated, and above all bored. As much as it galled him to admit it, Mycroft had offered him the perfect distraction from the mundanity of school life, and not having someone to focus his attentions on was leaving him frustrated both physically and mentally. A quick series of one night stands alleviated the first problem, but few things sufficiently distracted him from the second. The only thing that provided any kind of sufficient relief was using the information he had gleaned from Mycroft and his deductions to iron out a few basic blackmailing schemes. Funny how it turned out that rich young Uni students didn't want their parents to know what they were doing with those precious platinum credit cards. A bit of maneuvering here and there, and he found that not only was he well set up with a steady flow of income but had made himself a rather decent list of connections with some of the less savory elements on campus. A few people that worked for him as fronts, to protect the anonymous nature of the blackmail threats, a couple of small time dealers. One particular young man had a brother that was willing to bloody his knuckles on just about anyone for a relatively low price. He toyed with the idea of sending the man after Mycroft a couple of times, perhaps to stage a mugging or some other sort of random street crime, but he knew that the auburn haired student was smart enough to figure out where the attack had come from. And no attention meant no attention, not even the negative kind.

Finally, his patience was rewarded after almost six weeks, when late on a Thursday evening there was a tentative knock at the door to his flat. Neil had been reading on the couch, and his green eyes flew open as his entire body tensed like a large cat ready to pounce before he caught himself. No, it wouldn't do to seem too eager, or even to seem eager at all. As excited as he was about the prospect of watching Mycroft suffer beautifully to pay for his little transgression, the most hurtful option was to simply let the younger man feel as though he hadn’t been missed at all. Then again, the most useful option would be to flood him with affection. To completely sweep him off his feet and make him feel the heady endorphin rush that the young man so desperately craved. The sensation of being wanted would make the younger man pliant and eager to please, and that was exactly what Neil wanted. Carefully, he set his book down on the coffee table and waited for the second set of tentative knocks before rising and unlatching the door.

The sight that greeted him was almost shocking. It had been difficult to tell from a distance, but up close Mycroft looked like death. He was far, far too thin; his stormy blue eyes sunken and his prominent cheekbones jutting out of an almost fleshless face. While his suits (all new, Neil remembered, that should have tipped him off that something was amiss) were impeccably tailored and hid his newly gaunt frame well, they couldn't hide it completely. Mycroft's thin wrists, latticework of blue veins painfully obvious beneath the too-pale skin, were a dead giveaway of his physical state for anyone who cared to look. The younger student was an absolute wreck; sickly thin and beyond exhausted. He looked as if he might collapse at any second. It was absolutely gorgeous. Beyond beautiful. It was as if the younger man wore his emotional fragility externally, each barb and cutting remark Neil had made reflected in his hollow blue eyes and austere figure.

"Hello lovely," he purred, making sure to cast an openly appreciative look over Mycroft's emaciated form. "Would you like to come in?"

\---------------------------------------

Mycroft's voice was hollow and emotionless, almost robotic as he explained to Greg what had happened to precede what had happened on the video tape. Lestrade recognized the tone of voice instantly; it was one he very often heard when interviewing witnesses or victims immediately after a crime. Shock, emotional detachment, PTSD... no matter what it was called the results were the same. Hollow, glassy eyes that pointed out a mind obviously turned inward, either reflecting on or pushing away images of what had happened. It was no wonder, given the content that Mycroft was disclosing. A stunned, sick feeling spread through Lestrade as Mycroft continued to speak, detailing what Neil had said and done before finally managing to coerce the politician into bed. The utter bastard had withheld pain medication so that he'd have something to hold over Mycroft's head once Sherlock had been released. It was brilliant, in a horrifyingly evil way. And then to have Mycroft compromise himself to 'earn' his medication? Greg didn't have words to describe the fury the thought filled him with, and strongly suspected that there weren't any words in any language that would do what he was feeling justice. It wasn't until something in his jaw cracked that he realized he had been clenching it with enough force to actually pop the joint.

The tightness in his jaw perfectly complimented the burning in his eyes and throat. Lestrade opened his mouth to try and speak, but found he was unable; a combination of horror, sorrow and rage tangled up in his throat and made it damn near impossible to breath, let alone to create words. Silent, shaking slightly, he actually returned to a set of old breathing exercises, centering himself before speaking. A small twinge of pride filled him as he heard his own voice; while it wasn't neutral by any stretch of the imagination he had managed to calm himself to the point that he at least sounded sane. Which was far, far away from what he felt. Glancing down, he noticed that his hands had clenched into the white hospital sheets so hard that his knuckles nearly matched the color of the scratchy fabric they clutched.

"I'm so, so sorry," were the first words out of his mouth. He didn't sound pitying, because pity was the last thing that anyone wanted, let alone someone as fiercely independent as Mycroft Holmes. And because pity was the furthest thing from his mind. Horror, sorrow... those were evident in varying degrees as they were the main two sensations that filled the DI's heart and brain. "That's... that's awful. I can hardly believe someone would do that to you. He's an evil, psychotic bastard, you know that right?

"I can't.... I... Mycroft. I don't think any of those horrible things he said to you are true. Not now, not back when you were in Uni." He gave a soft sigh, knowing how difficult it was going to be to convince someone that had soaked up years and years of abuse and internalized it all that they had value. The fact that Neil had systematically stripped Mycroft of any sense of self worth he may once have had was sickening. The handsome politician had so much to be pleased with about himself; from his obvious success at his career to his charming smile to his impeccable wit, to his excellent taste. Yet not a single bit of it mattered at all because Neil hadn't allowed it to. And to call the man heartless? it was the most pointedly untrue thing Greg had heard, perhaps in his entire life. He was reserved, certainly. Cautious. Controlled. But most of those were likely the result of Neil's interference. Greg almost spared a moment to wonder what Mycroft would have been like in Uni, before the sick fuck had gotten to him. The idea was too painful, and he had to push it away before it was fully formed. No, Mycroft Holmes wasn't heartless or cold. Not in the least. He was a reserved man who had to, out of sheer necessity, detach himself from a horrible abusive situation and hadn't quite managed to find his way back.

"I know you have a heart, Mycroft. I watched it break when he sent you that terrible message about your brother. Nothing that he said could ever convince me otherwise, not after seeing how destroyed you were about what was happening to Sherlock. I know you're not going to believe me, and that's understandable. You've had an awful lot of untrue bullshit piled on you, and I don't expect to change your opinion of yourself overnight. But I want you to look at me, look me in the eyes, so you can see that I'm not lying." Greg let his eyes drift across Mycroft's face briefly before bringing his own chestnut gaze to meet Mycroft's cobalt blue. "You are not heartless. Not in the slightest. You may not wear it on your sleeve for everyone to see, but if they know where to look it's plain as day. Or at least it is to me. So no. I refuse to accept anything that psychotic, manipulative bastard has to say about you. I know you, Mycroft. And I'm telling you right now, with everything I can muster, that he is just plain fucking wrong about you."

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No. No, Mycroft didn't want to come in at all. He didn't even want to be here, didn't want to come back to Neil in the first place. But it wasn't a question of what he wanted, it was a question of what he needed. And he knew unequivocally that he needed Neil. He was suffering without the attentions of the older man, fading further and further away and becoming a shadow of his former self. The last time he'd been home, he'd been thinner than Sherlock, and he'd presumed that to be impossible. Only through a complex web of diversions and distractions had he managed to keep the younger man from noticing, though nothing had stopped him from noticing the sheer exhaustion that Mycroft now perpetually bore, making it hard for him to stay awake and alert through his classes.

Not that he was behind at all, because his grades were still impeccable. But that didn't change the fact that, inside and out, he was slowly crumbling into dust, fading into nothing without Neil to keep him vibrant. So he had to be here, as loathe as he was to admit it, because he needed Neil. And, sadly, there was still that little rush of pleasure in his chest when Neil looked at him like that, looking positively hungry for Mycroft's diminished form, though Mycroft knew he looked anything but appetizing at the moment. He couldn't seem to find the proper words to say to Neil, so he just nodded, sliding past the older student when Neil stood aside to permit him in.

He paused by the loveseat, turning back to look at Neil as the older student closed the door. Honestly, if he had his choice he would have let the silence drag on for much longer, but he didn't want to give Neil an opportunity to tear him down again and force him out, not before he said his bit, so he broke it first. The hardest, but simplest things came out first; "You were right. I'm sorry." Those words tasted poisonous in his mouth, bitter and twisted because they were honest and that made them hurt. It was like tearing a piece of himself out to admit that Neil was right about him after everything, that he really was everything the older student had accused him of being and more. But it _was_ true. He didn't have anyone else but Neil anymore, and might never again. And that killed him.

"I -- I came to apologize for the way that I acted the day I left. I was out of line, and you were right. There's...no one else who will have me but you." He stopped for a second, putting his hand on the arm of the loveseat for balance. One of the unintended consequences of his new 'diet' was that he was dizzy a good percentage of the time and often felt lightheaded, causing him to avoid stairs as much as possible. "So, if you would have me...then I would like to be with you again. Though I suppose like isn't a strong enough word. I need you, Neil." His blue eyes were miserable when he looked at the older student, and the gleam that awaited him in Neil's answering gaze told him all he needed to know. Neil absolutely, definitely enjoyed his misery. There was no other explanation for it

"Of course, I don't expect you to make it easy for me to come back to you, but I know you'll let me." Cerulean eyes turned sharp, cutting with their gaze. "I know what you've been doing with the information I was providing you with Neil, and you know just as well as I do that in order for your little enterprise to succeed, you need the information I provide. So, if you take me back, I'll continue to observe for you, and turn a blind eye to your...activities." He paused a moment to let the words sink in, then opened his mouth again to speak. Something stopped him, and he sat down a little dazedly on the arm of the loveseat, his head reeling like a ship on a stormy sea. He closed his eyes for a second, blinked them open, and tried to speak again. "I -- I -- " He never got to finish his thought, because at that moment he passed out.

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Mycroft couldn't handle seeing the sheer honesty in Greg's gaze as he told him, point blank, that Neil was entirely wrong about the politician. That he _knew_ that Neil had it all wrong, because he knew Mycroft. Maybe that was the statement that made laughter bubble up in his throat, turning into soft chuckles as he turned away from Greg again and threw one of his arms over his eyes. Perhaps it was just the fact that if he didn't laugh, he'd cry instead and that certainly wasn't going to happen if he had anything to say about it.

"Oh, Gregory," he said when he could finally manage to speak again, amusement still present in his voice, "your unfailingly high opinion of me is almost distressing. We'll have to find a way to divest you of that sometime soon so you're not surprised when I hurt you. Not that I want to, of course, but it's bound to happen sooner or later, I'm afraid.

"You're quite correct when you say that my opinion of myself won't change overnight, and I doubt it ever will. The tragic part is that you truly _believe_ that I'm different from what Neil says. That's how I'll end up hurting you then, by disappointing you." He started chuckling again, though it was a sad, lost sort of sound that could have passed for sobs on a different occasion. Thank god he still wasn't crying. Anything was better than crying in front of Greg. "Because I'm sorry to say that it's all too easy for me to disappoint you. I could push you away right now if I wanted to, hurt you without a second thought. I already know your soft spots and your weaknesses, it's just a matter of putting the right amount of pressure on them."

Abruptly, his smile and amused tone and any other sign of mirth, forced or otherwise, on his part was gone without a trace. His arm still slung over his eyes to protect himself from Greg's honesty, he continued, "I could destroy you very easily, Gregory, and it wouldn't even be difficult. I've done worse to lesser men. I tried to do the same with Neil, but he already knows all of his faults and adores them all because they're useful to him."

He chuckled again, suddenly slipping back into amusement. The pain meds were making his tongue a little looser than usual, making it easier to talk. The exhaustion did that too, bringing out things that should have been more difficult to share. "Oh, you should have seen him the day of the accident, though. He'd been hounding me for a meeting for months, and finally I agreed. He must have been so certain that I was going to crawl back to him again, he looked so pleased with himself when he saw me. And then that all fell apart when I told him I was truly done this time and if he persisted, the full force of the British government was going to come down on him. His expression when I left that day was entirely worth the accident later, even if I was in a coma for several days. He even sent flowers to my room. Lilies and freesia, of course. But that was the last time I saw him in person until two days ago. Until all of this, I'm sorry to say."

"So please, Gregory, rather than waste your efforts with me, you should focus your attentions on Sherlock. He had heroin injected into his system after several months of sobriety, so he'll be at quite the risk of relapsing again." Another thing that was Mycroft's fault. He was already putting a list together in his head, to be examined when he wasn't so exhausted. "Of course, he'll also want to go tearing off on an investigation into Neil's enterprises even though that previously resulted in both of you being attacked. I won't be able to prevent him, I'm afraid, but perhaps you could exert some influence. The two of you do seem to get along so very well, after all." And there, just a hint of bitterness that came from the creeping tendrils of doubt still clinging to his brain, put there by Neil surely out of spite. Mycroft didn't want to give them any weight, but perhaps it was better this way. Greg could go off with Sherlock, and Mycroft could go back to Neil. Everyone was happy. Of course.

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Mycroft stood silently in the threshold of the door, unwilling to leave but obviously hesitant to enter Neil's flat. The older man graced him with one of his very best stunning smiles, but the auburn haired young man seemed completely lost in his own thoughts, nodding while brushing past Neil and walking over to the loveseat without so much as looking up once. His balance wavered slightly as he came to a stop; in addition to being so thin as to almost appear ephemeral Mycroft seemed quite unsteady on his feet. Green eyes cast an appraising gaze over the pleasingly distressed younger man as he stuttered out his apology. Before Neil got a chance to interject himself into the conversation Mycroft was off again, eyes cutting as he tried to stare Neil down as he revealed his knowledge of the blonde's 'enterprises'. That earned the suddenly steely young man a quirked eyebrow, but he let Mycroft continue as he laid out what appeared to be some sort of compromise, at least to him. To Neil, it was painfully obvious that it was simply Mycroft agreeing to go back to the way things were. That was basically how their relationship had worked before; Gibson had never deluded himself into thinking that the younger student didn't know about his 'business tactics', he just assumed that Mycroft turned a blind eye because he wanted what Neil was offering more than he wanted to appease his own sense of morality.

Neil had opened his mouth to say as much, when Mycroft shakily deposited himself on the armrest,, his mouth moving soundlessly as if he were trying to speak. His gaunt frame wavered slightly, stormy blue eyes blinking as if the room was spinning around him. Concerned, Neil took a cautious step towards the younger mind, who managed to stutter out a single "I" before he collapsed backwards, going boneless as if someone had simply hit a switch and turned him off. Fortunately the loveseat broke the worst of his fall, though the auburn haired young man was sprawled rather uncomfortably, limbs all at odd angles. Neil dug one wrist out from underneath him, fingers finding the pulse along the inside of his wrist. It was strong if a bit high, and his pupils were responsive. There was little chance of it being anything other than simple starvation and exhaustion, and his body would take care of the latter if he was simply allowed to get some rest. Scooping Mycroft up in his arms, Neil carried him to the back bedroom, gently depositing him on the bed. He stripped the younger man of his jacket, waistcoat, and shoes, before covering him with a blanket, settling in to watch over the younger man until he woke. If Mycroft Holmes was going to die of starvation or exhaustion Neil would be damned if it was going to happen in his bed. Fortunately, it was only about fifteen minutes or so until Mycroft came to, his body obviously not ready to give up the fight just yet. Blue eyes fluttered open, looking at Neil with shock, horror, then finally resignation. Before the younger man could say anything, Neil pressed his index finger to the younger man's pale lips.

"Hey there sleeping beauty," he said, gazing down at Mycroft with a fondness in his emerald eyes that was only half feigned. It was hard to stay mad at the younger man when he came to pieces so beautifully. Any punishment Neil could have devised would have paled in comparison to what the younger student did to himself. There'd be time for Mycroft's tearful apologies and Neil's venomous recriminations later. Right now the very best thing he could do to cement the newly reforged connection was to be as supportive and caring as possible. Certainly it would give Mycroft the first 'hit' for free, so to speak, but wasn't that the common tactic that dealers used to build repeat business? And if it had the added effect of making Mycroft doubt himself for leaving, made him wonder if Neil had really been so cruel all along... well. That was just icing on the cake. Gently, he leaned over and pressed a perfectly chaste kiss to Mycroft's dry lips, letting one hand run affectionately down the side of the younger man's face as he gave him a concerned, searching look.

"I know that was a little backwards, but kissing you while you were asleep seemed a touch ungentlemanly." Steely blue eyes blinked as if they were holding back tears, though if they were from anger, surprise, confusion, or gratefulness Neil couldn't quite tell. Mycroft was still more than a bit dazed; obviously disoriented from having passed out in the living room and woken up in Neil's bed instead. Not wanting the opportunity to go to waste, he moved in closer, using one hand to smooth the soft auburn strands that had fallen out of place, stubbornly sticking to the younger man's forehead.

"I **have** missed you, you know." Neil carded his strong fingers through Mycroft's hair, making sure to glide the pads of his fingers across the sensitive skin of his temple; a place that he knew Mycroft was quite fond of being touched. "And if I had known you were doing this to yourself without me I'd have put a stop to it one way or another. You might be difficult and occasionally downright impossible but you're **mine**. I can't stand to see you treat yourself this way." _Mostly because that's_ _ **my**_ _job._

"You need to eat something. What's it been, a couple of days? That won't do. If you're serious about coming back I can't have you passing out all over the place." Rising from the bed, the blonde put one hand on Mycroft's shoulder, gently pushing him back down and preventing the younger man from following him. "No, you stay here. I'm going to bring you a mug of soup. We'll get at least a little something in that system of yours, and **then** we can talk." Without allowing Mycroft to argue he whisked himself off to the kitchen, and busied himself warming some basic broth for the younger man. When he reemerged in the doorway to the bedroom with a mug of soup the younger man blinked his blue eyes again, almost as if he expected Neil to disappear at any moment. God, was there anything more attractive than a helpless Mycroft Holmes? Neil made a mental note to be occasionally, randomly cruel to see if he could produce this kind of reaction in the future. For now, he was content to help Mycroft with mending, at least as long as he mended in all the ways Neil intended him to.

"Here. Get about half that down, and then I'll listen to whatever you have to say." With his 'good boyfriend' mask settled effortlessly back in place, he supposed that he might actually look like a doting partner, hovering by the bedside and holding onto the mug of broth between Mycroft's sips. When it had been appropriately drained, he settled in next to Mycroft, wrapping his arms around the deathly thin frame and pulling him close, maneuvering them both until the younger student's head rested on Neil's chest. "Now do we really have to hash all this out, or can we go back to the way things were without any more fuss? Because I'm willing to just move past it if you are."

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It was all Greg could do to not laugh as Mycroft detailed how cruel and cutting he could be. Not because he didn't believe the man; the politician was intelligent enough to take anyone to pieces in minutes. Sherlock did it all the time, and Mycroft had a wealth of emotional experience to draw upon as well. Being exposed to that much cruelty in a lifetime would undoubtedly make his lashes that much deeper, his barbs stick even more. No, what made Lestrade want to chuckle was the idea that he hadn't heard any of it before. Janice had been particularly nasty when she had found someone else, but hadn't started cheating. Greg supposed that she was looking to get him to step out first, or perhaps to outright leave her. She hadn't counted on Greg being able to withstand the waves of venom she slung at him day after day. Janice slung obscenely cruel comments around as if they were confetti, and he got a surprise party every time he decided to set foot back in the house. It lasted for six months before she finally gave up and started fucking that bloody Tory minister. What Janice hadn't counted on was the fact that, with the exception of the particular comments about his virility, Greg had heard it all before she even came along. His Da was a particularly vicious drunk, and when he couldn't actually make it out of his armchair to beat Danny, Greg, or both he took particular delight in picking at any insecurity they had. Hell, the old bastard had even created a few new ones just because he could.

So the notion that Mycroft, who couldn't bring himself to be cuttingly cruel even when ordered to, even when his brother's safety was at stake, was just a bit laughable. In a terribly bitter, 'I'd kill for a pint and a smoke right about now' kind of way, at least. Then again, maybe he had gone through all of that for a reason. Greg had always avoided telling himself that those types of things happened for reasons; he'd never been able to discern what the greater purpose of what he and Danny (Danny in particular) suffered. It didn't make them better people; it certainly didn't give Danny any thicker skin. It just gave them a bit more damage to carry around with them from an earlier age than most other folks. That was it. The pointlessness of what they went through was the experience's only saving grace; because if life was cruel and random then they just sort of lost the cosmic lottery. Even when he and Janice were fighting constantly, it never struck Greg as a benefit to be able to shake off her repeated, cruel tirades. All it did was open him up to more of her venom until she finally managed to tire herself out. But now, with Mycroft, his 'fortitude' or 'emotional scarring' or whatever it was called just may actually be a useful fucking trait for once.

First things first though. There had been an odd, fragile quality in Mycroft's voice when he spoke about how 'well' Greg and Sherlock got along. It wasn't defined enough for Lestrade to be able to pick out exactly what it was that bothered the politician about Greg's supposed closeness with his brother, but it would be easy enough to dispel that misconception. Sherlock positively hated him for withholding information about Mycroft's condition. It was probably best for the auburn haired man to know that, just so he could plan his brother's potential recover without relying on Greg to tentpole it. Maybe, just maybe, he would have been able to before their fight, but it was entirely beyond the realm of possibility now.

"As for Sherlock and me, we don't really get along all that well. Especially today. And I wouldn't be too sure about my being able to get through to him, the insufferable little git." Greg rolled his brown eyes, leave it to Sherlock Holmes to have a fit of pique while his brother's life was in danger. Git didn't even begin to cover it. Not that Greg himself had acted much better. "I'm quite certain that when he gets out of here he isn't going to want to see me again for a long, long time. If ever. We had a good row while you were out. He was pretty pissed that Anthea was telling me things about your condition that weren't being shared with him. Told me I wasn't important, didn't' deserve to be a part of your recovery process. Hell, the only thing that stopped us from arguing was the fact that some nurse came in and..." Oh shit, he hadn't meant to let Mycroft know about the second attempt on his life. There was nothing to be done about it and Mycroft would likely use it as another thing to lash himself with. He recovered as quickly as possible, though the break in his speech undoubtedly was noticed. "The nurse, she doped me up with enough morphine to knock me right the hell out. When I woke up you were here, and I'm pretty sure your arrival was the only thing that kept him from trying to smother me in my sleep. Still, I promised you I'd keep an eye on him, and I will, whether he likes it or not. But he's going to need your support too, considering I'm lower down on his shit list than you are."

"Now as for the next part," he said, fixing Mycroft with a mild gaze. Nothing challenging. It wasn't exactly that he wanted this, per say. But he wanted to survive it. Withstand it. Wanted to prove to Mycroft that even trying his hardest the politician couldn't hurt him. And if that were the case how could he possibly do it accidentally. "You say you're excellent at driving people away. Go on then. Hit me with it. Whatever you've got cooked up in that amazing brain of yours. Lay it out." He gave the politician a wry chuckle and a humorless grin. "I'm not a very sensitive person, Mycroft. I mean, I have feelings the same as anyone else, but it's pretty damn hard to hurt them. So go on. You say you're going to do it eventually anyway according to you, why not get it over with now? If you succeed in actually cutting me down the good news is for you that I'll leave you alone. And if you don't? Well, then maybe you can have a little faith in yourself that you don't break everything you interact with, and a little faith in me that I'm not going to come to pieces, even when you're at your worst."

"Oh! And before you tear me a new one, let me just put one more thing out there in case you actually succeed. You look really happy when you talk about completely fucking up Neil's plans, back on the day of the accident. God, I never thought about that but we must have met just a few months afterwards. I remember, you were using one of those big old 'brollies of yours as a cane. Anyway, you say that the look on his face when you threw all his plans to hell was worth it. Worth being in a coma, even. Maybe that's something to think about when you decided whether or not to offer a statement and testimony against him. Because I'm pretty sure that you actually taking a stand for yourself, both personally and legally, would completely fuck up his day." With a rather impressive grin on his lips, he turned back to meet Mycroft's rather shocked gaze.

"Ok handsome. I'm ready now. Hit me with your best shot. I'm willing to bet my mental health here, so make it good ok?"

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Awareness came in long, slow blinks and the image of a vague figure sitting by him, waiting for him to wake up. When Mycroft did finally manage to pull himself out of whatever had a hold on him, the figure sharpened and turned into Neil, and Mycroft's system did its best to panic even though he had no energy left for proper emotions. He was also in Neil's bed, strangely enough, when he was positive that he'd been in the living room just moments before. Had he missed something? He definitely must have missed something, because Neil was calling him Sleeping Beauty and leaning down to brush his lips against Mycroft's -- oh no.

It was the only affectionate contact Mycroft had had since walking out on Neil weeks ago, and just that slight instance made him ravenous for more. He'd sort of numbed himself to the crushing loneliness he'd been experiencing since he left Neil, but the older man managed to bring it all back with one chaste kiss. Mycroft could only stare up at Neil as he talked, still dazed, certainly confused, and hanging off of Neil's every word as if they could heal him. And in a way, they could. Neil was saying sweet, soothing things as he ran his fingers through Mycroft's hair, gently brushing against the younger man's temples in a way that made Mycroft want to close his eyes and go back to sleep in Neil's bed. At the same time, the last thing he wanted was to sleep because that would mean he couldn't soak up all of the affection Neil was giving him, and god did he need that right now.

Neil got up to get him something to eat and gently pressed him back down when Mycroft tried to follow, playing the part of doting lover so well that Mycroft was beginning to wonder if his assessment of Neil's motivations had been accurate. He did get things wrong occasionally, and he definitely wanted to be wrong about this. It would be so much nicer to lie to himself and think that Neil truly cared, and Neil wasn't doing anything to dispel the illusion. So as long as Neil let him, Mycroft was perfectly willing to stay under it, no matter what his instincts said. Or screamed. He just didn't want to lose Neil again, even if it had been his own damn fault the first time.

Which was why it was almost a surprise when Neil came back into the room, though where else he would have gone was a mystery. It hadn't exactly been a logical thought, but Mycroft wasn't thinking entirely rationally at the moment. There was just that fear, that insecurity that threatened to drown him if he thought about it for too long. So instead he drank his broth, Neil watching over him the entire time like a particularly loving hawk, and once Mycroft had taken the last sip needed to leave exactly half of the soup in the cup, Neil placed it down on the nightstand and unexpectedly pulled Mycroft close to him, the younger man's head naturally resting against his chest. Mycroft tensed for a moment, fearing a trick that wasn't coming, because the next words out of Neil's mouth made him absolutely melt against the older man.

 

"Yes, please," he said, relief obvious in his voice. It felt so good to just lie here, curled up in Neil's embrace, and soak up every last drop of attention and affection from the other man. Because he was well aware that this could all go away again with just one false step, one poorly thought out move. He had to be on his best behavior with the older man, there was no doubt about it. Please, appease, and make amends. It'd be relatively easy for him, and right now it sounded like the simplest thing in the world. "I just want to forget this whole mess ever happened...I really am sorry, though."

His voice was growing softer, his blinks getting longer until his eyes finally just slipped shut, exhaustion taking its toll. Neil was so warm and comfortable and the bed was so soft...his stomach also had something in it for the first time in days, so he was feeling almost full at the moment, or as close to full as he could get when he was perpetually hungry. Really, it was a perfect storm for his ill used, fatigued body, and it was hardly surprising that he shortly fell asleep in Neil's arms, feeling the sort of contentment he'd been missing for the past six weeks. This had been what he really needed, and he could only hope he didn't lose it again.

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Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly at the negligible break in Greg's speech when he talked about the nurse, the slight pause tipping him off instantly. There was something else there, something that Greg didn't want him to know, and he'd have to spend more time sorting it out later. He was missing quite a bit of information from the time period during which he had been unconscious and he'd have to catch up with Anthea later. Though the PA was nowhere to be found, and Mycroft knew that that had to be by her express design. Anthea was always present when he least wanted her to be and absent when he needed her as a buffer. Clever, clever girl.

But the mystery of the nurse couldn't completely distract him from the relief that came when Greg said that he'd fought with Sherlock and there was still some animosity left on both sides. By all rights he shouldn't have been happy because this would undoubtedly make the younger man that much more impossible to deal with, but it was so very good to hear from Greg's own lips that the two weren't as close as Mycroft assumed. It couldn't dispel his doubts entirely, but it certainly calmed them enough to relegate them to the back of his mind, allowing his full attention to focus on the next unbelievable things that Greg said.

He couldn't do anything but stare at Greg with shock as the DI invited him to try to tear him apart to the best of his ability, basically just so Greg could prove that he could handle anything Mycroft had to throw at him. He filed Greg's suggestion regarding Neil away for later review along with the nurse, not allowing it to distract him from the sheer insanity coming from the other man at the moment. Why on earth would Greg invite this on himself? How could he so nonchalantly ask Mycroft to rip into his psyche to the best of his ability, what could be gained from that?

"No," he said when he could finally manage to speak again, and Greg honestly looked surprised. God, was the DI constantly expecting another blow, another hit? Apparently Mycroft wasn't the only abused one here. "No, Gregory, I refuse to subject you to that. You misunderstand me, I don't want to hurt you, and I won't do it on purpose. I would never lay out a list of your flaws just to hurt you because I don't consciously want to. It happens accidentally. I'll be too cold and distant, I'll upset you without having any idea anything's wrong, I'll fail at the most basic emotional tasks in a relationship because I don't possess the capacity to understand and empathize with those around me.

"So no, I will not tear you apart out of whatever misplaced masochism or ill perceived show of good faith towards me on your part that's prompting this. I would never intentionally hurt you, it's the unintentional things I worry about. And please," he said, holding up a hand, "spare me the speech about how that's how relationships work and you'll unintentionally hurt me as well. I understand that you sincerely believe that's true, but I cannot even begin to tell you how wrong you are. You've seen how lost my brother is when it comes to human emotions, what makes you believe that I will be any better? And no, I don't believe that you'll fall apart or come to pieces because of me; I have more faith in you than that, Gregory."

His tone took on a bitter edge. "No; instead, you'll crack. Slowly and steadily over time, I'll put more and more of my weight onto you, each new issue putting more pressure onto fault lines that already exist. And since I have nothing to offer you to repair those cracks, they'll grow and grow out of bitterness and resentment until you finally leave the way you should have since the beginning. You're mistaken if you think I would tear you down quickly, in one fell swoop; no, that would be a mercy. I'll just wear you down until you have nothing left to give. I won't want to, but I will. So please, if you think you're going to change that by trying to let me 'get it out of my system' or whatever it is you're trying to do, make no mistake, you're going to fail. It's best for you to give up now, and I won't stop saying that until you do."

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The look of sheer shock on Mycroft's face when Greg offered to let the politician put him to the test was entirely unexpected. The DI had considered the possibility, or rather the inevitability, that Mycroft wouldn't take him up on his offer. No matter what the aristocratic bureaucrat thought of himself, Lestrade certainly wasn't heartless or cruel enough to attack someone unprovoked. Greg had hoped perhaps to use that reluctance to prove to Mycroft that he wasn't the villain he painted himself as, but when the other man continued on all the DI could do was look on, brown eyes narrowed and silvery brows knitted together in concern and disbelief.

When Mycroft went on to explain why he thought he was unsuited to a relationship, how he would be casually and unintentionally cruel, it was actually heartrending. A sickly sharpness threaded itself through Greg's ribcage, stealing his breath away and making his heart positively ache for the other man. Mycroft considering himself a weight, a burden to be borne was perhaps the most upsetting thing that Greg had heard all evening; topping the rather impressive list of competitors. Just thinking about it made a sort of haunted chill run through the exhausted DI. It was the first time he felt, actually **felt** the full magnitude of Mycroft's psychological wounds. The handsome politician thought merely being himself would be enough to erode someone's affection for him until there was nothing left... God. It was disgustingly cruel, and though he had thought it impossible Greg found himself hating Neil Gibson even more. The heated flash of anger was quickly dispelled, replaced with familiar pangs of heartache and concern that shot through Greg's heart like lightning. When the worst of the sensation passed it left something constricting and painful in its wake. It felt like the tightly coiled, barbed tendrils of worry had permanently embedded themselves in his chest.

“I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that I thought you'd do that on purpose," Lestrade was sputtering a bit, he realized, but he couldn't exactly help it. "I just thought that if I showed you that I was rather impervious to your best conscious attempts to wound me, that you'd have a bit more belief in my ability to withstand the unintentional misunderstandings we'd be bound to have. I can understand why that's an entirely unappealing idea though; I certainly wouldn't be if our positions were reversed. It was a terrible idea, and I apologize sincerely if I made you uncomfortable. I suppose I'm just rather confident in my own resilience. But don't worry, tested or not I'm sure it's something you're going to get to experience." Greg offered the man across from him a genuine if sheepish smile, his brown eyes fondly searching Mycroft's handsome face for any hint of understanding or forgiveness.

"And speaking of stubbornness; I suppose we're at an impasse, then. Because you're not going to be able to convince me that any of what you just said is true. You absolutely **do** have the capacity for empathy. I experienced it firsthand on our car ride over to the pub. You were smart, and funny, and kind, and above all you actually **listened** to me." The DI couldn't help the look of sad reflection that passed his face for a moment as he searched his memory for the last time someone had actually made him feel valued like that, at least on a personal level. The Yard was great for his professional pride, and his team listened to him as much if not more than the average work courtesy provided for. Still, with relatively few close attachments, the list of personal instances of that feeling of value was short and sadly quite out of date. His heart gave a hopeful flutter as he remembered how wonderful it had felt in the back of the car; Mycroft's hand on his knee, steely blue eyes full of empathy and concern.

"And while I appreciate what faith you do have in me, I wish you could find it in you to have just a little more. If over a decade on the force and years-long deterioration haven't managed to grind me down to dust, I don't think you'd be able to either. Not mind you, that I think your assessment is accurate at all. You've been kinder to me these past 48 hours than anyone has in a long time. You listened to me when I talked about Danny, and I haven't done that in years. **Years** , Mycroft. You didn't put any weight on me; if anything you lifted some that I didn't even realize I was still carrying." Chestnut eyes locked onto Mycroft's cobalt blue, looking at the man with such intensity that it seemed as if he was trying to burn the truth of his words into the other man's mind with the force of his gaze.

"You have a great heart, Mycroft Holmes, and I'm not ever going to stop telling you that. Even if you don't believe me. Hell, even if you **never** believe me. There's not a damn thing you can do to convince me otherwise, and there's nothing you can do to shut me out or shove me away. And since you've sworn to keep on with trying to convince me that I'm better off without you, we appear to be quite stuck."

"I guess all that's left now is for us to wait until Sherlock wakes up so he can confirm that you owe me one more date," Greg said with a bit of a lopsided grin. "Which, given how angry he's been at me, might prove to be a real victory for you. I failed to take that into account when I originally came up with the idea." Another wry grin crossed his lips; this one slightly less genuine as he tried to erase any sign of worry from his face.

"I guess we'll both just have to wait and see. Oh, and in case I haven't told you in the last few minutes, I think you're bloody amazing. Not just because of who you are, even though I must say that you still make quite the impression on me. But because for someone who's been through so much, you're still amazingly caring and kind. I can see it in the way you look at Sherlock, in the way you looked before you left the hospital. So, yeah. Go ahead and ignore it. I'll say it as many times as I need to. Mycroft Holmes, you are fantastic."

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"I know, I know," Neil whispered reassuringly to Mycroft as the younger man murmured apologies, his strong hands continuing to stroke through silken auburn strands. He kept soothing the fragile man until he sank into a deep sleep while nestled up against his chest. After a few minutes of deep, steady breathing he disengaged himself from their tangle of limbs, setting the younger man down gently so as not to wake him.

"Mm. Hello William, pet. I do apologize but I have to back out of our planned excursion this evening. It appears my starved, bedraggled ex has appeared on my doorstep, and it's up to me to make sure the poor thing doesn't keel over and die. I doubt I'm going to be available again, at least for a few months. It was fun while it lasted though. I'd prefer if I didn't see you around though; it might be a little too upsetting to Mycroft, and he is in a rather delicate state. In fact, he's here now so I have to let you go. Take care, and please do try not to be too angry?" Before the other man could get a word in edgewise he disconnected, dutifully ignoring the phone as William started to dissolve into something between angry shouting and the beginning of tears.

Neil continued to ignore the phone as it rang and rang; evidently William wasn't going to take not having the last word very well. With some luck, and perhaps a few words in the right ears,William could be convinced to take his anger at Neil out on his recently no longer ex-boyfriend instead. The auburn haired young man was already in quite a bit of a state, having an incensed, over dramatic ex of Neil's show up and tell him off might be enough to trigger another breakdown. He rolled the thought around in his head for a moment before making a few carefully worded phone calls to mutual acquaintances, being careful to paint Mycroft as needy and a touch controlling in his explanations, before blocking William's number from his phone. There. That ought to stir the pot enough to get a bit of third party rancor thrown in Mycroft's direction.

Unable to sleep, Neil slid back into bed with his newly regained conquest, gazing at him with a look of focused consideration for the remainder of the evening as he turned over various scenarios in his mind. He felt positively alive, body thrumming with an energy that, despite pulsing through all his nerves, remained hard to describe. It was the oddest combination of excitement and something wholly indefinable. The simple idea of having Mycroft wounded and pliant, eager and willing to be twined around his fingers once again was beyond intoxicating. A predaceous grin split his face as Neil thought about pushing at all his sore spots; planning out the best tactics to use when picking away at all the newly deepened wounds in his psyche made the older blonde feel a good bit more alive than he had just days before. There was something so invigorating about possessing someone completely, and the fact that Mycroft by all rights should have been intelligent enough to avoid the types of traps Neil set out for him was positively intoxicating. In a battle of wills, he had tested himself against one of the most formidable minds he could find and come out unequivocally on top. His emerald eyes flickered over Mycroft's pale, thin form with a look of pure avidity.

Beyond eager to start up their games once again; the older student slid out of bed stealthily so as not to wake his exhausted bedmate. He dressed quickly and quietly, heading out of the flat just long enough to pop down to the corner market and pick out a few breakfast pastries and two cups of coffee so he'd be fully prepared to lavish Mycroft with attention when the younger man woke. Setting his acquisitions on the bedside table he stripped again, leaving himself in nothing but his boxers and a thin t-shirt as he pressed himself up against Mycroft's emaciated side, smiling as the younger man began to stir.

"Missed you," he half growled, half purred as he nuzzled against the side of Mycroft's neck, stopping only to place a few kisses along the now-sharp line of the younger student's jaw. He placed each of his hands on the no-longer-just-slightly smaller man's sides, running his fingers across the prominence of his ribs, each bone starkly visible underneath the thin veil of pale flesh. Physically, Mycroft being so thin was almost unappealing. But the idea that it was an outward expression of his inward deterioration made the sharp visibility of each and every bone in his overly thin frame one of the most beautiful things Neil had ever seen. He wanted to trace his lips across every single one, mark them with teeth and tongue while they were still visible, celebrate every sharp curve and skeletal outline as another mark of his victory over the younger man. Instead, he satisfied himself with a swift series of kisses down the vertebra of Mycroft's neck, pressing his face into the hollow between his prominent shoulder-blades before speaking.

"You know, this is my last year in Uni. My last semester, even. After our spat I had started thinking about going back to the states when my term was up... but that seems significantly less appealing now. Especially knowing you'd be stuck here all by yourself. But nevermind. It's too early for such heavy discussion. There'll be plenty of time to talk about that later. I got us some breakfast," he said, making sure to change the subject before Mycroft could get an opportunity to get his bearings or react. It was almost too easy to get the younger man to internalize things. Withdrawing his hands and rolling over, he grabbed the bag with the pastries and handed it over to Mycroft. "I picked out a few of your favorites, and a few of mine. Some coffee, too. I thought maybe we could call off class and just stay in bed all day. Catch up. Get a little more sustenance in you. You need the rest, pet. What do you say? Stay with me?"

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Silently, Mycroft willed Greg to stop talking as soon as the other man stopped apologizing and started complimenting him again. He honestly couldn't take much more of this; Greg's honest and clear admiration and affection for him was starting to chip away at his defenses, the ice he'd carefully layered around his heart beginning to drip away as it melted, slowly, just a small thaw. If Greg kept up with much more of this, Mycroft wouldn't be able to hold it all back anymore. The walls would come crashing down, and every part of his shattered psyche would spill out, creating the most hideous mosaic across the hospital floor.

He wasn't sure at what point in the conversation his eyes began to mist over, but he didn't even notice it until he realized abruptly that he couldn't see Greg through the liquid piled high in front of blue irises, and the tears were in danger of spilling over. Jesus. What ungodly effect did this man have on him? Why was it that Greg was able to reduce him so quickly to the needy mess he actually was? Not out of malice, oh no, but through sheer genuine honesty and caring. It was too much for Mycroft. He turned away from Greg again, keeping his eyes open in an effort to avoid losing the first of what would surely be many tears if he started now.

"There's...there's no need to apologize," he said, his voice soft. He waited until the haze of tears had lessened some to blink, trying to rid himself of the last of it though that was proving exceedingly difficult. There was a pressure in his chest, an aching sensation shortening his breaths in a way that usually signaled he was going to cry very shortly, and it made his next words difficult to get out. Halted and slowly, he continued, "Really, I'm the one who should be apologizing. It seems...that I keep upsetting you without intending to. I wish...that I could agree with you on the subject just to upset you less, but...well...I'm afraid that I'm unable." He could feel it acutely, now, his breaths shorter and closer to sobs, his lungs feeling absolutely crushed by the weight of his own heart. It was harder to hold back the tears that wanted so dearly to fall, the urge to cry beginning to claw at the back of his throat, itching around his eyes as he realized the obvious; he was just a few steps away from a breakdown, and each minute spent in the kind company of Greg was only bringing him closer, ever closer. He was beginning to shake now, and the terrifying thought flashed through his mind that he was just going to shake to pieces here, now, in front of Greg.

Of course, that was the moment that Sherlock started stirring in his bed.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neil continues to be a sadistic bastard, Mycroft and Sherlock have words, and Greg starts to worry.
> 
> Warnings: Eating disorders, dub-con, emotionally abusive relationship, sadism, Uni-flashbacks, introspection, blackmail, mentions of kidnapping, "emotional torture porn", and general unhappy fuckery.

The first thing that Sherlock was aware of, as he dragged himself out of a restoring sleep, was his brother's voice. The sound filled him with an immeasurable sense of relief that he would never admit to feeling, and he was reminded of when he was a very small child and nightmares would have him shaking and sweating in the middle of the night. Nightmares were, after all, a sign of intelligence in children, and he and Mycroft had been prone to so many during their youth that psychiatric treatment was seriously discussed. Well, at least, it was discussed for Mycroft, and decided against, and when Sherlock fell to the same fate, he merely had to call for his brother, and a sleepy, somewhat disoriented Mycroft would appear in his doorway and tell him to go back to sleep. Sometimes Sherlock would insist that Mycroft stay with him, and his older brother would comply, ending up sharing a bed with him and allowing Sherlock the peace and security of having his brother whole, safe, breathing, next to him.

That was what it felt like now, to hear his brother's voice again after the mess of the past 48 hours, and even though he could hear that something was wrong from the way Mycroft's speech was halting, Sherlock knew that his brother was alright. Mycroft had come back from worse things, and he could come back from this, with time. The recovery wasn't Sherlock's concern; he'd done his part by finding Mycroft in the first place. There was, however, the small matter of Neil Gibson to be taken care of.

Sherlock rolled over to find his brother's eyes already on him, and sat up in his bed, clever eyes quickly noting the things that were wrong in this scene; his brother's eyes were teary, his breaths short, and the lovebites on his neck hadn't faded any from the time that Sherlock had witnessed them being made on Neil's video. Greg, too, did not look quite like himself; the DI looked positively distraught, brow knitted and the corners of his mouth turned down as if he was in a perpetual state of concern, and it was quite obvious who the object of his concern was. But Sherlock knew better than to point any of his observations out, instead locking gazes with his brother in the Holmesian way.

If they had been any closer in age or features, people would undoubtedly have assumed the Holmes brothers were twins. As it was, a large part of the population seemed to believe that the two shared some sort of psychic connection, an idea that amused them both greatly. Considering how well the brothers could read complete strangers, added to the time they had spent together growing up--which, for Sherlock, was his entire life--it was no wonder that they could understand each other so well. One knew what the other was thinking usually with just a look, and that was what Mycroft was doing currently, as he cut off Sherlock's half-formed thought by anticipating its direction and shutting it down before it could go any further.

"I won't," was all he said.

Sherlock tched. "You haven't made up your mind yet," he said dismissively.

"And what if I have?" Mycroft asked, with a saccharine smile solely meant to upset his brother. Oh, Mycroft was so very good at those, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"If you don't, I'll--"

"You'll what, dear brother? Go on another revenge driven spiral?" the elder Holmes asked coolly. "If you do, I'll personally guarantee his release from prison."

Sherlock positively _seethed_ at that, knowing his brother had him with that one point. Mycroft always, infuriatingly managed to put him in checkmate, no matter how much age or experience Sherlock gained. The only time he actually stood a chance against his brother was when he had blackmail. Unless, of course, Mycroft had more. Such as was the case here. So icy absinthe eyes drifted to find another thing to release his torrent of frustration on, and they alighted quickly on Greg.

"And as for you," he began to growl, eyes narrowed on his target in a way that made it perfectly clear that he was continuing their feud from earlier, but he got no further, as anything he was about to unleash was immediately quelled by the sharp exclamation of, " _Sherlock_."

It was the same sharp, authoritative tone Mycroft had been using for years in instances where Sherlock was too far over the line for even Mycroft to excuse. And, contrary to appearances, Mycroft actually forgave Sherlock for more than even their dear Mummy did. Even now, with years separating them both from their stormy childhood, Sherlock's body reacted instinctively as it had always down, his spine straightening as he paled, his eyes snapping back to his elder brother. The look on Mycroft's face said everything plain as day; _Not now._

So he turned his eyes away from Greg again, mouth snapping shut as he crossed his arms against his chest and fumed silently to himself, cursing Greg in about ten different languages in his head as Mycroft rubbed his forehead with one hand, looking completely exhausted with the whole affair. What Sherlock didn't see, however, was the small smile that graced his brother's lips, though a similar one made the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch up ever so slightly. It was their own way of checking that everything was okay; Sherlock sulked and Mycroft admonished. They were both, in the end, alright.

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If there was a more pleasant way to wake up, Mycroft couldn't fathom what it was. He was slowly, gently roused from sleep by the warm weight of Neil against him as the older man nuzzled right against his neck, saying the most ridiculous thing that he missed Mycroft just because of the man's unconsciousness. Only, at the moment, it didn't sound ridiculous to him, but rather unbearably sweet and lovely. The effect was only magnified by the gentle, quick kisses along his jaw and the half-nuzzle in between his shoulderblades, Neil's hands spanning his ribcage to feel the bones that seemed just barely contained by Mycroft's alabaster skin.

He couldn't help the smile that Neil's actions produced, or the warmth slowly spreading through his chest as Neil settled in against his back. It faded immediately, however, at the man's next words. He'd known, of course, that Neil was in his last semester at Uni, and had even used it to encourage himself to stay away from Neil; if he could just survive this semester, the American would be far enough away as to not be a problem. But he hadn't even considered the possibility that Neil might return to the States. Considering the older man's contentious relationship with his father and total lack of a desire to become embroiled into the politics said father wanted him to engage in, it had seemed like Neil would do everything he could to remain here.

And this was disastrous. Neil couldn't leave now, not when Mycroft had just come back and still had three years left here. Not that he would follow Neil to the States, or anything, but just the thought of being here alone...no. Three years alone would kill him. A month and a half had already reduced him to skin and bones. Pure panic welled up at the thought, but Neil was already moving on to other things and encouraging him to do the same. So Mycroft pushed it back down, knowing he would return to it later, when he wasn't soaking up Neil's lovely company.

He sat up slowly, taking the bag from Neil that already had his mouth watering. His stomach was already making it very clear what it wanted, and he knew his carefully maintained self control would have to slip. Neil was encouraging it to slip, and he was in no state to say no to Neil at the moment. So he smiled at the older man, settling with his back against the headboard. One day off of classes wouldn't kill him. "Of course," he said in response to Neil's question. "I apologize for falling asleep here last night, I really didn't intend to. I've just been so tired recently..." He rubbed his forehead for a moment, and then smiled at Neil again. "Right, breakfast." He couldn't actually remember the last time he'd eaten a proper breakfast. It'd been awhile.

He opened the bag Neil had provided him with and his heart nearly stopped at the smell of sugar and baked goods. Food felt like an enemy, even food Neil was giving him. To accept this, to eat something this rich, would feel like admitting defeat to him. Suddenly feeling slightly sick, he handed the bag back to Neil with a slight smile. "Maybe some coffee, first," he said, swallowing the hunger back down.

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It was difficult for Greg to tell as their beds were close but not close enough for him to make out the minute details of Mycroft's face, but it looked like the politician's eyes were watering as Lestrade brought his words to a close. It didn't last long enough for him to really see, as Mycroft snapped his face away from Greg's gaze before the silver haired man had truly gotten a chance to take a good look. God, he must have upset Mycroft more than he initially had thought, if he was tearing up. If that was even what he saw, in the first place. Still, his gambit with trying to get the elder Holmes to test his mettle had been a poorly thought out and terribly executed idea; of course Mycroft might feel deeply wounded by his suggestion.

_Fan. Fucking. Tastic._ The DI through briefly about sending Anthea a text. He was making a total dog's dinner of this, if Mycroft's reaction was any indication. Greg brushed the pad of his thumb across the screen, preparing to type out a message to the clever PA when the sound of Mycroft's voice stopped him cold. The politician barely sounded like himself; his voice barely above a whisper, the words stilted and strained, uttered between short, sharp breaths. First was his insistence that Greg not apologize, which was expected. Mycroft would certainly not want to admit how terrible the DI's idea was, nor how much it had obviously wounded him. His heart very nearly broke as the obviously distraught man went on to detail how he was sorry for disappointing Greg by being unable to change his opinion of himself, which confused the DI to no end. Sure, Lestrade wanted Mycroft to feel better about himself, certainly. But he knew it wasn't going to happen in one conversation. And while he was hurt on behalf of Mycroft he wasn't upset with the man or anything like that. No, he was just upset **for** him.

He barely had put together a few words detailing how Mycroft wasn't upsetting him, wasn't disappointing, and wasn't at fault for any of Greg's mood despite his rather poor opinion of himself, when a rustling from the next bed made him pause. It seemed that Sherlock was in the process of waking up. A smile crossed his face; though the young man had obviously just been sleeping it was good to know that he hadn't been the victim of an additional attack like Greg had. The smile of relief soon faded, though, as he realized that the younger man was very likely still furious with him, and bound to cause trouble that Mycroft did **not** need to be dealing with at the moment.

Silence hung heavy in the sterile hospital air as Greg watched the two brothers stare each other down. He couldn't see Mycroft's face, but he imagined it looked a good deal like his younger brother's, if a bit less pouty and a touch more severe. Sherlock's ethereally green eyes had narrowed in his stereotypical 'deduction' gaze, flickering rapidly over his brother's form. Mycroft's steely blue were more than likely doing the same, ghosting over Sherlock to determine all the things that his brother didn't want to tell him but couldn't hide.

Lestrade had only seen the Holmes brother's 'unspoken' conversation tactic just a scant handful of times. Usually it was when Mycroft had reason to come to a crime scene; whether it was for Sherlock's benefit or because it crossed over into the politician's work domain was one of the things that Greg always assumed was covered by whatever secret language they were speaking to each other. Sherlock cast a cursory glance over at Greg, but his attention quickly turned back to his brother who had begun speaking. They traded cryptic phrases and fragments of sentences, none of which Greg really understood until Mycroft said that if Sherlock tried to go after Neil that the he would 'personally assure' the man's release from prison.

A wave of relief washed over him when he realized that neither brother was paying enough attention to him to have noticed the absolute look of anguish that must have crossed his face at the thought. The possibility that Neil wouldn't go to prison was something that the DI had prepared himself for; one of the things you learned being at the Yard for so many years was that some people just didn't get the comeuppance that they deserved. But the idea that Mycroft himself would willingly aid in the man's release hadn't occurred to him at all. Even after all the terrible things that Neil had said and done, Mycroft would still consider returning? It seemed impossible. Except... he’d seen enough domestics during his career to know that the psychology behind it was good. Especially after all the havoc that Neil had wreaked this time around, probably convincing all the while that it was Mycroft’s fault, and in his best interest to stay. The thought turned the DI’s stomach, even as his eyes turned a worried gaze on Mycroft while the politician’s attention was still focused on his brother.

The more rational part of Lestrade knew that it was a threat to keep Sherlock from disappearing into the night and coming back with a necklace of Neil's fingers as trophies, or something equally dramatic. Not, mind you, that the idea was entirely unappealing to the DI given what little Mycroft had told him of their time together. But the other part, the part of him that knew just how deeply Mycroft was hurting, and how little he thought of himself, knew that if the politician bent and had Neil released for any reason their reuniting would be almost completely unavoidable. Regardless of his motivations, the gesture would make Mycroft seem all too willing to welcome Neil back into his life. From what Greg knew of the man it would only encourage more stalking, more pressure, more evil psychological torture tactics until Mycroft finally caved and went back to being completely under his thumb once again. Better to give Sherlock something new and immediate to focus his anger on, rather than letting him seethe internally. That would likely end up with an empty hospital bed and likely a Neil Gibson shaped corpse in the morgue. As satisfying as that sounded, however, it was probably the worst possible outcome considering how Mycroft felt about... well. Both of them. Neil and Sherlock. Well, at least they could agree on one of those two points. Surly and ill tempered as he was, the younger Holmes was important to Greg too. Especially given that his entire strategy for dealing with Mycroft relied on Sherlock’s cooperation, or rather his dedication to the Truth.

"Good morning sunshine!" Greg kept his voice cheery and only the slightest bit sarcastic as he addressed the younger Holmes brother. Sherlock was obviously spoiling for a fight, and though the DI didn't feel the least bit inclined to indulge his cantankerous nature he kept the infuriatingly mild smile on his lips well after that icy green gaze would have melted it completely. The last thing Lestrade wanted to do was fight with Sherlock. Certainly not in front of Mycroft, anyway. The poor man had been through enough without having to watch two of the three people who were supposed to be looking out for him tear each other to shreds. But Sherlock being angry at Greg was better than Sherlock seething and plotting revenge against his and his brother's kidnapper, so Lestrade was careful to smile and speak politely in all the ways he knew grated on the detective's nerves.

Mycroft had put a stop to Sherlock's initial outburst with his characteristic brotherly warning tone, sparing Greg from the raven haired detective's wrath for just a little bit longer. Though if the daggers that Sherlock glared at him were any indication, big brother's intervention could only save him for so long. Well, as awful as Sherlock had been, Greg had overstepped himself too, and an apology was in order. He gave a slightly abashed sigh and raked a tanned hand through his hair before addressing the sour young man.

"Well, I think I'll save my apology for my earlier behavior for when you don't look quite so much like you've bitten into a rotten lemon," Greg said with a tinge of humor in his voice. "But either way, I'm glad to see you're up and feeling a bit better, Sherlock."

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Neil matched Mycroft's movements, sitting up next to the younger man and resting his back against the carved oak headboard. He couldn't help but beam as the other man stuttered out an apology for falling asleep, long fingers working over the worry-lined skin of his forehead. God, he was so pitiful that it nearly made Neil's mouth water.

"Please," he murmured reassuringly, placing one hand on Mycroft's thigh, just barely high enough to be more than friendly. "I wouldn't have let you go home last night. Not with the state you were in. I wanted you to sleep here. Or were you not listening when I said that I missed you?" Green eyes searched the younger man's stormy blue, but all he picked up on was a sea of uncertainty. Excellent. With no expectations on Mycroft's part, Neil was free to set up any rules he liked about their newly reestablished relationship. At least one of which would be more frequent access to the younger student.

"Well, let's make this abundantly clear, Mycroft. Before, you were staying here several nights a week. I'd prefer it if we could keep on with that rather lovely pattern. In fact, once you enroll next year you'll be eligible for off campus living. I was thinking if I renewed my lease on a long term basis and stayed in London post-graduation that perhaps you'd be interested in moving in." He was careful to keep his tone neutral and his words even as he reached over and picked up the coffee and handed it over to the man next to him. "That is, as long as things keep working out between us. But I'm sure they will," he delivered in a confident, silky tone as he relinquished his grasp on the cup.

Mycroft's nearly translucent skin had taken on a greenish tinge as he looked into the bag of treats Neil had given him, a mixed look of hunger and disgust crossing his face. Encouraging the frail young man to take up eating again was going to be a bit of a struggle. Neil had seen him act this way a few times before, once right before finals or when things between them were getting tense. Neither of those times had been as bad as this, and both instances had taken quite a bit of convincing on Neil's part to get the younger man back into a regular eating habit. In a way it was sort of delightful; another aspect of Mycroft's life for him to dictate and control. It would have been perfect, were it not for the fact that actually getting the younger man to eat took effort. Biting back a sigh, he made a mental inventory of what was in his kitchen before speaking again.

"If the pastries are too much I can go get you something lighter from the kitchen. I think I have some melon and pineapple, as well as a couple different kinds of cereal. Or I could just make you some toast." He met Mycroft's gaze with what he hoped passed for loving concern, though he suspected it had the barest hints of determination as well. "At the very least, if all you're going to have is the coffee let me get you some milk and sugar. Market coffee on an empty stomach is asking for trouble."

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Somehow, Mycroft just knew that Anthea had arranged this on purpose. Oh, of course it made the most logical sense to put him into a hospital room with the two people he knew, and that's exactly what she would say if asked about it, but it was also a tactical move on her part. One, because she knew that Greg would, well, be Greg, and do his best to help the politician recover from Neil's poisonous influence while also trying to convince him to lock the bastard up, and two because she knew Sherlock would--forcefully, mind you--encourage him to do the same. Both men wanted him to give a statement, but both were going about it different ways. Greg had offered it as a possibility, not pushing anything yet, while Sherlock had immediately tried to blackmail him into it, though Mycroft had been able to quickly shut that down with his own threat. 

Really, being in this hospital room was like being stuck between a rock and a hard place; on either side, he was quite frankly screwed. Greg would cover the emotional side of the argument, while Sherlock would childishly bully him into it as much as he could. The whole thing made him seriously consider asking for a private room, but he had a sneaking suspicion Anthea would manage to curtail that idea. It seemed that, for the time being at least, he was going to have to mediate the situation between Sherlock and Greg. Which was actually perfectly alright with him, since it meant that neither one would be focusing their attention on him for the moment.

Though the idea was looking less and less appealing as soon as Greg's half sarcastic greeting was out of his mouth, causing Sherlock to shoot him a scowl that looked capable of turning people to stone. Before the younger man could say anything derogatory, however, Greg had continued on to apologize for his earlier behavior, the fight that he had mentioned to Mycroft. Sherlock was evidently having none of his apology as he pointedly ignored the DI, looking at the wall on the other side of his bed in an effort to avoid even recognizing Greg's existence. The whole situation, actually, looked absolutely ridiculous. Both he and Sherlock had been separately kidnapped, Greg had been stabbed, Sherlock beaten, and Mycroft shot, and here the three of them were, Sherlock and Greg in a petty feud over Mycroft, who was actually present now and could see how absurd the whole thing was.

It was enough to make him start chuckling, though this caused Sherlock to roll his eyes in the next bed. "Gregory," Mycroft started, his tone amused, "perhaps you should wait until my brother is a little more amenable to ask him for his advice. At the moment I don't think he'd be particularly inclined to agree with you." That, as predicted, managed to get his brother's attention in a minute, the detective casting aside his surly air to narrow his eyes in on Greg.

"Advice on what?" he asked, voice heavy with suspicion, and Mycroft smiled at him before turning to Greg.

"Would you care to explain it to him, or shall I?" he asked, a combination of amusement and satisfaction in his tone, as he knew he was almost assured to win this argument now, considering the state Sherlock was in.

\---------------------------

It wasn't Mycroft's fault that his heart sped up just a little when Neil put his hand in a friendlier than usual place on his thigh. The affection, as well as the words from the other man, were meant to reassure him, he was certain, but he couldn't find anything but uncertainty to give Neil in return. He was so unsure about this entire situation, so afraid of it dissolving again. He was starting to think he was insane, that he'd imagined all the cruelty from Neil, because otherwise the other man would have surely lashed out at him already.

Instead, the blonde was handing him his coffee and casually proposing that Mycroft move in with him. Wait, what? Move...Neil wanted him to move in? Like, as soon as he was eligible to live off campus. And the way Neil said it was so nonchalant, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world to have Mycroft move in. It was honestly a thought that Mycroft, not Neil, had been putting off. Sure, before their break-up, Mycroft had been staying over several nights a week, which was fine with him, but he'd only started keeping a drawer full of things for when he stayed over on Neil's request; he'd been reluctant to even take that step with him. When he tried to define his reluctance, however, he simply failed to find a way to put it in words. It was his last bit of independence, he supposed. Having his own dorm room afforded him some privacy and some time away from Neil for anytime the older man was in a particularly bad temper. Having his separate space was good for both of them.

But now, this...he had the feeling that if he pushed against the idea too hard, Neil would threaten to pull everything he was offering away. With Neil, everything was almost a business negotiation; you had to accept all of his terms without argument, or he'd withdraw the entire deal. And right now, Mycroft couldn't handle it if Neil withdrew everything. He wanted things to go back to the way they were, but that meant he also wanted the agreement of staying over several nights a week, not full on moving in. The good news was, however, that he had some time--hopefully, because Neil was incredibly impatient, especially about things he wanted--to try and renegotiate the terms of this particular agreement.

For the moment, he had to actually address Neil's concern about his eating and weasel his way out of talking about moving in. Considering his options for a moment, he decided some cream and sugar wouldn't kill him, and eating something light would appease Neil's concern for the moment. But definitely not toast. Carbs were the enemy. "Some cream and sugar would be lovely," he said with a slight smile. "As well as the fruit. I think I can manage to eat a bit of that, if it would make you feel better." He paused for a moment, composing the most delicate way to put what he had to say next. "As for next semester...well, I wouldn't want to prevent you from returning to the States, if that's what you intended to do. As much as I would obviously love for you to stay here, I would feel like a burden moved in. I still have three years left, so you would be saddled with the lease for that long unless, of course, you signed it over to me at some point, and I don't think my father would be enthused about paying for an apartment in London. It is a lovely offer, though. Just...unrealistic, I believe."

\---------------------------

It didn't escape Lestrade's notice that though the question was directed at Mycroft, the politician prompted Greg to do the answering. Bringing up their wager was a beautifully diplomatic move; getting Greg and Sherlock to talk to each other about something else. Though having Greg answer not only made sure that Sherlock's attention focused on another conversational topic to steer them both away from their feud, but also put the detective's reaction on Greg as well. If Sherlock took the idea poorly, Lestrade would be the one to take the blame, thereby giving Mycroft an advantage should his brother take offense to the concept.

Before answering Greg brought one hand up to the bridge of his nose and tried to squeeze away the tension that was gathering there. God, dealing with the Holmes brothers was infuriatingly complex. Hidden motives, double and triple plays, the whole gamut of bureaucratic maneuverings, not to mention that way they talked to each other without actually speaking. Well, it was completely useless for him to try to play on their level; Lestrade had known he was hopelessly outclassed. The truth appealed to Sherlock, though, so going with stark honesty was his best bet. It was hard not to feel nervous; not simply because he wanted to 'win' that date with Mycroft just to keep things between them moving forward but because he desperately needed Sherlock to refute his brother's supposed emotionlessness. Pausing for a minute to gather his thoughts, he gave Mycroft a measured look before turning his gaze to meet Sherlock's icy absinthe-colored glare.

"Well, while you were sleeping Mycroft and I got into a mild disagreement regarding his "ability to read outcomes" as he put it. He's spent the better part of an hour trying to convince me that he doesn't deserve affection because he's incapable of empathy, let alone reciprocation. Because of this he went through a rather pessimistic projection of our future together, one that would involve wearing me down simply by being himself, until I eventually left him." Greg held back a sigh and tried to keep any emotion out of his voice as he continued. 'Sentiment', as Sherlock so derisively called it, would only hurt his chances of the young detective agreeing with his assessment instead of his brother's.

"I told him that not only did I not agree with his projection, but that he was an absolutely no position to be unbiased when offering it as he takes far too low an opinion of himself despite appearances to the contrary. So, I offered him a bit of a wager, one I suggested that you arbitrate. You have the same gifts as Mycroft, but you're much more inclined to be neutral and tell what you actually see rather than rely on your preconceived notions. I know how important the truth is to you." Instead of giving Sherlock the imploring gaze that he so badly wanted to, Lestrade fought to keep his eyes and face as neutral as his voice.

"So the deal is this," he continued, unconsciously raking his fingers through his short silver hair. "You read us, Mycroft and I, and tell us your deductions about our outcome. If your projection matches his, I've promised not to pursue the matter any further. But if you see something different he's got to take me out, just once, and give things between us another shot."

"Look, I know you kind of hate me right now, and this'd be the perfect opportunity to really get some back for earlier. But I know you won't. You value the truth too much. So, what do you say? Care to offer us your insights?" Greg closed with a genuine hopeful smile; it was too difficult to hold it back and besides, Sherlock would have been suspicious if he'd shown no emotion at all. Resisting the urge to cross his fingers he sat back in his hospital bed, casting a small, uncertain smile at Mycroft while he waited for the detective's reaction.

\---------------------------

It took every shred of Neil's self control to keep his mouth from twisting into a scowl when Mycroft tried to beg off making plans to live together. That simply wasn't going to do. The older man very nearly started lashing out at the younger man, tearing away at insecurities by accusing Mycroft of not being invested in their relationship, of wanting to be alone, of sabotaging their relationship before it had even been reestablished. He bit back the angry words, settling for fixing the younger man with a gaze that was full of hurt and disappointment before letting it fade completely, carefully schooling his features back to a practiced politician's neutral. Empty smile, empty eyes. There. That should have the younger man kicking himself for a good long while. Why punish Mycroft when, given the right motivations, the pathetic little genius would abuse himself when handed a decent reason to do so? He cautiously let a bit more of a genuine seeming smile bleed into his neutral mask as he plucked the bag of pastries back from Mycroft and deposited them on the bedside table once again.

"Yes, well. I guess we can talk about that again when my lease comes up, I suppose. I've still got a few months to decide what I want to do. And don't mistake me; I have no burning desire to head back stateside. If I could stay in London forever, I would. But, well. I've got to have something more going for me over here than simply not wanting to go home." Pushing off of the headboard, he gave Mycroft a quick peck on the cheek before getting up off the mattress. "But like I said, later. Today was supposed to be for relaxing. I'm not helping you any by adding extra stress."

He stood by the side of the bed for a moment, stretching languidly as he watched Mycroft's reaction carefully. The younger man appeared to be lost in his coffee cup, undoubtedly drowning in the sea of doubts Neil had just poured on him. Oh, it was almost too _easy_ to be enjoyable. Almost. 

"Hey there pretty, you falling asleep again?" When Mycroft looked up Neil leaned over, capturing the younger man's mouth with his own, giving him a kiss that was anything but chaste. His lips moved sinfully against the younger man's mouth, carefully licking at tongue and teeth as Mycroft automatically opened himself to the embrace. Ah, muscle memory was a beautiful thing. He only kept up his assault for a few moments before pulling away, satisfied gleam in his emerald eyes. "You stay here, I'll go get you some of that fruit you asked for. Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone," he sang out cheerfully as he exited the bedroom, smiling to himself, knowing it would prompt Mycroft to think about being without him during the last three years of his term at the university. By the time he came back with some sliced melon the boy should be very nearly in tears. It would be absolutely delicious. Had there ever been a better way to spend a morning than torturing poor, sweet, insecure Mycroft Holmes? If Neil had ever experienced it, he couldn't remember. This was certainly the best he could remember feeling in weeks. Humming to himself but keeping on ear turned towards the bedroom, the blonde started leisurely rummaging through the fridge for the promised fruit, being sure to go slowly so as to give his words the maximum amount of time to sink in.

\---------------------------

Sherlock's eyes were mostly fixed on Greg as the DI relayed the conversation and subsequent wager he'd made with Mycroft, but they occasionally flicked over to his brother, trying to gauge Mycroft's reaction to everything that Greg was saying. What was immediately obvious was that it was all true; Greg wouldn't lie and even if he did, Mycroft would have no difficulty correcting him. While it was hard for him to believe that his brother was on the verge of taking up with Gregory Lestrade of all people, there was no dishonesty from either one of them. Rather, he could see how much Greg had riding on this wager, as the DI was doing his best to keep all evidence of sentiment out of his bearing, no doubt so Sherlock wouldn't dismiss him immediately. And as for Mycroft...

Mycroft was afraid. Sherlock could see it settling onto his features--just barely there, just hints around his eyes, the set of his mouth--growing larger with each word the DI spoke. As Greg stopped speaking, Sherlock's eyes narrowed in on his brother, focusing intensely as he tried to figure out why on earth his brother would be afraid of the bet he'd made with Greg, when only moments ago he'd seemed rather self-assured about the whole thing, at least until Greg started talking--oh. There were several possibilities, then. One, quite obvious, was that Mycroft didn't want to hurt Greg. He almost wanted to be proven wrong, just because it would mean sparing the other man--who was clearly quite emotionally invested at this point--from pain. Another was that if Sherlock agreed with him, Mycroft would have even more of an opportunity to slip back to Neil, which at this current juncture, seemed like it was still weighing heavily on his brother's mind. That particular possibility almost made Sherlock growl. Usually he stayed as far away from his brother's personal affairs as possible, but when Neil was involved, it was impossible to ignore. He didn't just affect Mycroft's romantic life; he took over everything he could, destroying Mycroft's relationships with anyone else. If Mycroft went back to him this time, it was quite possible that Sherlock would never see him again. Because Neil always got what he wanted, and even in Uni it had seemed that he wanted all of Mycroft's time to himself. Bastard.

The final possibility that Sherlock settled on, however, was that Mycroft was afraid of being wrong. He had so deeply embedded himself in his opinion of himself, had trained himself into believing it for so long, that to hear not one, but two of the people closest to him refute it would be shattering. He hadn't allowed himself to even consider the possibility that he was wrong, because that would mean he was wrong about everything else as well. Wrong about himself, wrong about Neil, wrong about Greg, even. And that thought was terrifying to him because if there was one thing Mycroft Holmes couldn't deal with, it was uncertainty.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he came to this conclusion, and Mycroft's slipped shut in answer, the elder Holmes realizing his brother had already sorted the whole thing out for himself. "Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock said, his voice the closest to soft it would ever come. "You can't be serious."

Mycroft's voice was carefully measured when he responded, and Sherlock was certain his older brother had retreated deeply into his own head to rebuild the defenses that were rapidly coming down. "Go on, Sherlock. You've already made up your mind."

Sherlock drew in a deep breath before turning his eyes back to the DI, who was clearly a few steps behind in the conversation. "Mycroft's wrong," he said firmly, and the flood of surprise and relief evident in Greg's features made him glad that Mycroft had already closed his eyes. It wouldn't be helpful to his brother at the moment to see Greg's emotions play out across his face, and if he and Mycroft had anything in common, it was the necessity for defensive walls. Mycroft needed a little time to rebuild his, and Sherlock would gladly give it to him. After all, Mycroft was the one who had taught him the importance of being careful in the first place.

"My brother is sentimental to the point of being practically repulsive, so the notion that he wouldn't be able to reciprocate emotion is nothing short of absurd. In fact, it would be more realistic to say that he would become overly emotionally invested in the relationship, though it wouldn't be obvious from your point of view. He might, in fact, succeed in acting coldly toward you, but that would only be a defense mechanism, a shield to make sure you couldn't use the depth of his emotions against him."

There was a soft sound from Mycroft, a slightly pained exhale, but Sherlock continued over him, determinedly not looking at the bed his brother was in. "If the relationship were to fail, it would more likely be because he was successful in hiding his emotions from you and you, wrongly assuming he didn't care, would indeed leave. Or, also likely, due to the pressures and demands of both of your occupations, neither of you would be able to find the time for each other and the relationship would fall apart through no significant fault on either side. As much as I'm loathe to admit it," he ground out, his tone making it clear that he still hadn't forgiven Greg, not even close, "you're right, Lestrade. Due to your own stubborn and sentimental nature, coupled with Mycroft's tendency to deep emotional attachment, the relationship is actually much more likely to succeed."

\---------------------------

Oh no. Evidently Neil wasn't going to give this point up without a fight, because the gaze he fixed Mycroft with was so full of pained disappointment that it almost physically hurt. Of course, the older man quickly hid the expression behind a mask of neutrality, continuing on to say they could talk about it again when his lease was up and it wasn't a discussion for a day meant for relaxation, but that didn't change what Mycroft had seen. As Neil slid off of the mattress, Mycroft's eyes went to his coffee, wondering how easily he could drown himself in it.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had come back to Neil what, just the night before? And already he was fucking up again, and majorly at that. If he wanted this to work, he was going to have to be a little bit more careful with how he handled things from the other man. The last thing he wanted was for Neil to change his mind. No, he couldn't afford to have Neil change his mind. That point was quite forcefully reiterated when he turned in time to catch Neil's lips with his own, his mouth slipping open to accommodate the older man on instinct and memory alone. Neil was absolutely implacable in his intrusion, possessively licking every inch of the younger man's mouth until he seemed satisfied that Mycroft was properly dazed enough and pulled away again, going into the kitchen with a comment that made Mycroft's heart stop.

_"Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone."_

Surely that must have been on purpose. Neil must have said that to trigger regret in Mycroft's mind about trying to get out of moving in with him. Right? There was no way that comment was accidental. Because the flood of fear and insecurity that it released was enough to make Mycroft's eyes start tearing up, something painful scratching at the back of his throat. Jesus, what was he doing, turning down Neil's gracious offer? If he pushed Neil away now, it was entirely possible that the American would return home, leaving Mycroft in the same state he'd been in for the past few weeks, only over three years. He'd accidentally starve himself to death if the loneliness didn't kill him first. After all, Neil had been perfectly clear; unless he had a reason to remain here, he would be forced to return to the States. And while Mycroft had never seen himself as a reason for Neil to stay here, it was quite easy for him to see himself as a convenient excuse for Neil to avoid his father's influence. Which reminded him, painfully, of Neil's words the day they met; _"You, Mycroft Holmes, are so much more interesting than a mere excuse."_

Something akin to a sob worked its way out of his throat and he quickly set his coffee cup on the nightstand, getting out of the bed. Oh, standing had not been a good idea. His body was still dizzy and weak from hunger, and he had to put his hand on the wall to steady himself as he made his way into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind himself. He needed some space to think away from Neil and this was the best he could do at the moment. He cast a glance in the mirror and quickly looked away again, tearing his eyes away from the desperate, hollow face that had greeted him. Self-loathing rose up quickly in the form of bile at the back of his throat, and he barely managed to get the lid of the toilet up before the meager contents of his stomach emptied themselves again, aided by his fingers at the back of his throat.

He forced himself to go to the sink and wash his face and mouth out thoroughly after flushing the toilet, and then collapsed to a seat with his back against the tub, his already frail body weakened further by his actions. Neil was undoubtedly going to be upset about the fact that Mycroft had undone his work from the night before, but that was alright. Neil was already upset with him, and the conflict about Mycroft moving in was certainly more significant than Mycroft's eating habits. He put a hand to his abdomen, feeling the fragile flutter of his pulse through his prominent ribcage, barely covered by a delicate layer of skin. No, if Neil left, it was extremely likely that he'd manage to accidentally kill himself. Without someone who would care about him present on nearly a daily basis, making sure he ate and looked after himself, it'd be all too easy to fall apart, waste away. He had to accept Neil's offer, as reluctant as he was to let the older man into every aspect of his life. His need for care and affection outweighed any misgivings he had about the older student, and besides, Neil had been beautifully behaved since Mycroft returned. It was so easy to hope that he would continue to act that way, as long as Mycroft didn't fuck things up again. Besides, maybe he was wrong and living with Neil would be a good thing. The only way to find out, would be to give in.

\---------------------------

Sherlock's admonition of " _You can't be serious"_ confirmed Greg's suspicions about how the young man felt about Greg striking up a relationship with his brother. There was something funny and just a touch familiar about his voice; soft around the edges in a way that the DI had never heard Sherlock speak before. Disappointment? Resignation? It was close to either (or perhaps to both) but neither was exactly accurate. Lestrade cast his brown eyes towards the older Holmes brother, hoping to read a bit more into Sherlock's intentions by Mycroft's reactions. But Mycroft was laying in bed stock still, face even paler than before and his stormy blue eyes closed as if he were trying to shut out the entire world. Which perhaps he was. No expression revealed itself in the lines and contours of his face as he told Sherlock to get on with it, citing that the raven haired detective had already made up his mind. The sentence made Greg's stomach drop, leaving him slightly dizzy and feeling a touch hollow. Greg noticed that the careful phrasing of Mycroft's words in no way indicated that his younger brother would tell the truth, just that Sherlock had decided what to say. If the detective had reached a decision that quickly, the DI knew it couldn't bode well for him. Had the still-angry younger man decided to side with him, Greg would have expected a good bit more debate and resistance before the he finally gave in.

So when the words " _Mycroft's wrong_ " uttered in Sherlock's posh baritone rang clearly through the hospital room, it came as quite a bit of a shock. Some small, still functioning part of Greg's brain noted with a bit of humor that Sherlock had said his brother was wrong, rather than declaring that the DI was right. Even so, it was exactly what Lestrade had been hoping for. Sherlock agreed with him, clearly stating that his brother's assessment of himself was off base; that Mycroft was neither emotionless, nor incapable of reciprocating emotion. Even though his voice sounded quite livid when he said it, the detective even noted that because of their complementary natures that a relationship between the two of them would be more likely to succeed than fail, which had been beyond Greg's wildest imaginings even in as a best case scenario. A wash of relief flooded his system, temporarily making him blind to the extreme level of discomfort in the room.

His sense of respite was extraordinarily short lived. The pained sigh that escaped Mycroft's throat in response to his brother's words robbed Greg of any sense of victory. Something about that sigh sat ill with the DI, and there was no shaking the feeling that something amiss. Carefully, he tore his eyes away from Sherlock's intense glare to rest them on the quiet figure of his older brother. The auburn haired man looked positively anguished. Between the sharpness of the man's exhale and the obviously tense set of his aristocratic features it was quite obvious that Mycroft was deeply unhappy. A sick thread of doubt slithered out of the back of Greg's mind, twisting itself down his throat to settle uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. Oh god. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. In the brief moments he had let himself think that Sherlock would agree with him, Lestrade told himself to expect Mycroft's resignation, disbelief, even a touch of anger. But the politician didn't look like he was feeling any of those things. No, he just looked pained, and sort of sick. And Sherlock? Sherlock looked positively furious.

_And why shouldn't they be upset and angry?_ The voice in the back of Greg's head whispered to him venomously. _You've all but completely twisted this situation to be about you and your needs. Congratulations, you've managed to entrap a man who's been sexually taken advantage of and emotionally abused into going on a date with you because you liked how things were before his assault. Stand up gentleman, you are. Let yourself think you're doing something good for someone so you can just try to insinuate yourself closer to them because you're sick of being lonely. Well, no fucking wonder you're lonely. You couldn't possibly have worse timing, or worse intentions. You wanted to help Mycroft by convincing him he was wanted, using your own feelings as proof? Yeah, how'd that work out? I mean, just look at him! He's miserable at the thought of just dating you._

Maybe what Mycroft meant when he said it wasn't about what he wanted was significantly different from how Greg had interpreted it. At the time, it had seemed like an implication that the handsome if withdrawn politician had shared his feelings, but was reluctant to act on them because he believed himself to be unworthy or incapable of sustaining a relationship with Greg. And that was the issue. 

_'With Greg.' That was the part I added, the part I pushed for. God, he actually meant he just wanted to be able to have a decent, normal sort of relationship with someone. Not me, someone. And here I've been doggedly chasing after him. I'm hardly any better than his stalker ex._

The thought cause the back of Lestrade's eyes to burn with frustration and anger, all of which was directed at himself. He wanted the floor to open up and just sort of swallow him alive so he wouldn't have to deal with the utter mess he'd created. Where the fuck was Anthea? Wasn't she supposed to keep him from making a complete and total jackass of himself? No, that was wrong, this wasn't her fault. Poor thing was probably sleeping, which she sincerely deserved. Greg had, after all, fought tooth and nail to be a part of Mycroft's recovery and make damn sure that he had sold the woman on his ability to handle anything that Mycroft Holmes threw at him. _I am such an utterly selfish fuck._

"You know what?" he muttered, casting his chestnut eyes down to his hands, which were grasping the hospital sheets in tense fists. Greg most certainly did not want to meet either Sherlock or Mycroft's gaze. "I'm- I'm sorry. This was a terrible idea. This is um... it's. Look. I'm really, really glad that Sherlock agreed with me," he said raising his eyes to give the younger man a small smile and a quick nod before letting them fall back to his lap. No fucking wonder Sherlock hated him so much. He was clever, he'd already figured out what Greg was doing even if the DI hadn't let himself realize it. He should have listened to the detective when he all but demanded that Greg stay away from his brother. Sherlock always knew, and Greg always inevitably ended up listening to him. Why, just this once, couldn't he have taken a hint and listened to Sherlock first instead of doing things the hard way? Usually he was the only one to suffer when he decided to ignore the younger man's advice, but this time he'd dragged Mycroft down an emotionally jagged road along with him, and that was beyond unacceptable. One hand loosened its grip on the sheets, bringing itself to rub along the back of his suddenly stiff neck.

"Really, I am glad for that. I, er. Well, that is... Mycroft... I hope that you take your brother's words to heart. You're not an emotional vacuum, though he could have put it a bit more politely I suppose. And... if we'd work out then I'm sure you can extrapolate and realize that means you'd work out with other people too. That was really all I wanted. For someone else to agree with me and tell you that you can and do have emotions. You... you don't have to take me on that date. It was an immensely stupid idea and I won't have you do anything that you're not comfortable doing just because of some silly wager we made. It was immensely inappropriate given everything that's happened over the past two days, and I'm sorry. So, so sorry."

\---------------------------

The first thing that Neil noticed when he swept back into the bedroom with the bowl of fruit was his conspicuously empty bed. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen, but it was easy enough to figure out where the younger man had gone. A small amount of noise came through the closed door to the adjacent bathroom, which was where the younger man had obviously retreated to. As quietly as possible, Neil set the bowl of fruit on the bedside table and went to go stand next to the bathroom door. The unmistakably distinct sound of someone gagging filtered through the thick wooden barrier between them. Well, it appeared that his aim to upset Mycroft had succeeded even better than planned. His lips twisted at the corners in a cruel mockery of a smile before he managed to school his expression back into one of concern. God, the poor little genius really was a wreck. Leaning against the wall, Neil waited and continued to listen.

Running water blocked out most of the next set of sounds; evidently the poor thing was trying to clean up after himself. Neil smiled and turned his eyes to the door when the faucet stopped, expecting a rather embarrassed and distraught Mycroft to appear at any minute. Instead, there was a few seconds of quiet before the unmistakable sound of the younger man dropping to the floor hit the older student's ears.

The thump of Mycroft hitting the floor wasn't as distinct as it should have been. For some reason the indistinctness of the sound rather than his emaciated frame was what made Neil realize that the younger man had lost a _dangerous_ amount of weight. Mycroft splintering was fun. Mycroft broken and reeling was an absolute delight. But if the young man had pushed himself so far as to actually make himself useless... well. That was no good for Neil. Toys needed to be properly cared for, or they had a tendency to break beyond repairing. Ugh. The idea of actually having to go through the routine of doting and mother-henning the younger man sounded terribly dull and exhausting. But it did offer the opportunity to dictate so very many things about the younger man's life. His diet, his schedule, _everything_ really. The absolute high of orchestrating everything about the auburn haired young man's routine would be more than enough to make up for the inconvenience of actually having to provide physical and emotional support. And once he was better it would be yet another weapon to hold over Mycroft's head. Well, that settled it.

"Mycroft," he said firmly, knocking lightly on the bathroom door. "Please come out of there. I'm rather worried about you. And don't stress about anything I said earlier, about moving in. There are still months and months between now and then. We'll work something out, something that's good for both of us. Now please, come out." Neil let his voice drop to just above a whisper, but still pitched so that Mycroft could hear. "Please, love. You're starting to scare me."

\---------------------------

Mycroft's entire world was cracking around him, and he just didn't have the lies to put it back together again. It had been one thing when Greg was telling him that his opinion of himself was wrong, that Neil was wrong about him. He had been able to handle that, despite the brief flare of hope in his chest, because Greg was a good, kind man and saw Mycroft in a very different way than he actually was. He could write off Greg's opinion very easily. But then Sherlock had agreed. Sherlock had seen the fear in Mycroft's features, and had agreed with Greg that his brother was wrong. Which meant that Mycroft was wrong about everything, and he wasn't quite sure he could handle that at the moment.

Everything was hitting him full force; his relationship with Neil, the years of manipulation and lies that he'd had to believe because the alternative was to realize that he'd been controlled and abused by a psychopath, and _willingly_ chosen to stay with him anyway. Of course, he'd already known most of this on some level, a good part of it even on a conscious level, but right now everything was crashing into him at the same time and he was overwhelmed by the flood of emotion on the verge of drowning him at the moment. His hand immediately went up to cover his still closed eyes, needing to shield himself from the outside world in whatever small way he could. If he had his way he would lock himself in a separate room and deal with this on his own, but that really wasn't an option at the moment, and the last thing he wanted was to fall apart in front of Sherlock and Greg. Sherlock had already seen too much of him today, and Greg...well, the poor man was trying to apologize again. What on earth for?

Oh god. As Mycroft listened to Greg stammering through an explanation and apology, he realized that the DI had entirely misinterpreted the situation and now was blaming himself for what he thought was a poor reaction on Mycroft's part. Well, it was a reaction, but he was sure that Anthea would have called it a breakthrough. Greg had got what he wanted; Mycroft was starting to believe what he had been saying. Unfortunately, that meant that everything Mycroft believed had to be entirely scrapped, and that was what he was having trouble with. He'd so convinced himself of the reality that Neil painted for him, so deeply entrenched himself in his belief that Neil was the only person who'd accept him, the only one who could withstand him, that trying to dig his way back out again was harder than just letting himself fall back into his old beliefs. Because now he had to see the true reality that he'd been hiding from himself; that he'd been in an emotionally and psychologically abusive relationship with a psychopath for years, and had been lied to, manipulated, and used. It was a lot for anyone to handle, let alone someone as intelligent as Mycroft Holmes, who should have been able to see through something like this. But he hadn't allowed himself to.

And now poor, sweet Greg was blaming himself for a reaction he didn't understand, and Mycroft's heart was cracking further apart with every word. He could hardly gather himself enough to speak, but luckily Sherlock took over before he had to. "You absolute, utter imbecile," the younger man growled, and Mycroft reminded himself to try--once again--to teach his brother how to phrase things more delicately. "I honestly don't know how Anthea deals with the two of you, the poor woman is probably banging her head against her computer monitor as we speak."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, mostly to remind his brother to get to the point so Greg wouldn't self-flagellate himself further, but his voice came out cracked and slightly broken. He didn't need to open his eyes to know his brother had cast a glance at him at that.

Apparently it had made Sherlock realize that he needed to be more delicate and put aside his anger for his brother's sake, however, as his next words were significantly less hostile. Well, as less hostile as Sherlock could be at the moment. "As much as the idea of my brother in a relationship with you frankly repulses me, it's obvious to even someone such as yourself that he has feelings for you. For God's sake, Anthea saw it since the moment you two met, and while I may disagree with her matchmaking processes I do believe that the 'attraction' she sees between you two is absolutely correct. Now, if you could pull yourself out of your spiral of self-pity long enough to pay attention, I could explain this for you.

"Essentially, my brother has just had his entire belief system about himself, his relationships, and his personal world entirely shattered and is attempting to recover from this. He's not having this reaction because he's rejecting you; quite the opposite in fact. He's reacting this way because he realizes that he won't be able to reject you and actually has a chance at a potentially happy relationship. So please, God," Mycroft was sure there was an eye roll here, "give the man a minute so he can tell you all of this himself."

With that, his younger brother lapsed into silence again, and a smile almost rose to Mycroft's lips. It had been obvious from Sherlock's tone that he was surly about the whole thing, and the way that he had delivered the information to Greg was nothing short of hostile and done in a way to purposely make the man feel stupid, but he'd still done it. He'd still chosen to put Mycroft's needs above his own petty feud with Greg, and that meant more to Mycroft than either of them would admit.

\---------------------------

Mycroft jumped at the sound of Neil's voice coming through the door, coupled with a light knock. Lost in his own haze of doubt and insecurity, he had entirely forgotten that the older man had been bound to come back at some point and wonder where he was. A shot of something lovely went through him when Neil's voice dropped lower, into an almost frightened variation of concern. Oh, the fact that Neil cared felt so nice. Compassion was such a lovely addiction.

But despite the older man's pleas, Mycroft didn't move immediately. He wanted to have the door between him and Neil for this next part of the conversation, so he wouldn't have Neil's reactions shaping his words as they came out. This decision had to be made under his own volition, not at Neil's request. "No, Neil," he called back, his voice soft at first, but growing slightly stronger as he continued to speak. "You were right. I think moving in would be the best thing for both of us. We can talk about it again when the time gets closer, but I changed my opinion. There's no reason why I shouldn't, as long as you're completely fine with it. I don't know if your father would consider a serious boyfriend a good enough reason for you to stay here, but if he does I'm more than happy to fill that role."

He let his head rest back against the tub behind him, closing his eyes. He was still so very, very tired. "Besides, we have some time to sort out the details and figure things out. It is the best idea, though. For both of us." He paused a moment, gathering his energy, and then pushed himself up to standing, going to unlock and open the door to find Neil on the other side, looking concerned and just a touch pleased. Mycroft leaned against the door frame, giving the other man a tight, tired smile. "Once again, you're right. I don't know why I bother arguing with you anymore."

\---------------------------

When Sherlock started snarling insults at him, Lestrade's heart gave a final, feeble sputter before coming to a dead stop. The younger man's baritone was more acerbic than Greg had ever heard it before as he growled out "Absolute, utter imbecile". It was enough to make him want the floor to swallow him up whole. Well, at the very least Mycroft would have good solid proof that despite his brother fighting him at every turn Sherlock still cared enough to come to his defense when it was needed. When the actual words that followed hit Lestrade's weary brain, he almost had a hard time picking out the meaning from the overall demeaning and virulent tone. But once they sank through the outer shell of shock and self-affliction they warmed Greg to the very core, in spite of the antagonistic phrasing and tone. He'd misread the situation yet again. Mycroft was struggling with his own internal issues, nothing to do with Greg at all. That in and of itself was enough to allay most of his guilt. Then Sherlock uttered some of the most fantastic words that Lestrade had ever heard. " _As much as the idea of my brother in a relationship with you frankly repulses me, it's obvious to even someone such as yourself that he has feelings for you..._ " Well ok. Maybe it wasn't the actual words themselves, but their content at least was extraordinary.

How could he possibly have missed it? All the things he had been saying to Mycroft seemed to apply to himself as well; about trusting the connection they seemed to have forged early on at the pub, or the way that it felt when their hands brushed together, or the fact that the politician couldn't seem to shut him out entirely. If Greg had simply just heeded his own advice he could have avoided both putting his foot in his mouth, and a rather spectacular dressing down from Sherlock. Hell, it may well have been some of the best news that Lestrade had ever received in his life, but the young detective managed to deliver it in a way that made Greg feel like a chastised schoolchild. His hand dropped from the back of his neck to tangle up in the sheets again, wrapping the rough fiber around its knuckles before coming to rest near it's mate on the DI's lap. What the hell did you say to something like that? _Thanks for making me feel like a complete idiot and letting me know that you're horrified of the idea of my pursuing a relationship with your brother? But sincerely thanks for making sure that I know what he's going through so I don't fuck things up worse than I already have?_ It seemed a bit... much. A quick glance up let him know that the raven haired detective was still staring him down as if the force of his absinthe colored gaze could set Greg on fire if only he tried long enough. Mycroft remained prone in his bed, eyes closed, as still as a marble statue. Well, that pale skin was a bit freckled for a marble statue, but the comparison still worked.

'Oh," Greg muttered, almost toneless in his delivery. "I-, that's, I-I mean... er... " He let the mostly incomprehensible words trail off, still entirely uncertain of what to say. It seemed that no matter what happened he was going to misread things, even if he was misreading by thinking he was misreading them. It was damn well enough to make his head hurt, and his side throbbed in time with the pulse that was hammering at his temples. _Oh, that must be the extra dose of morphine wearing off. Wonderful. Good lord, could I possibly have gotten anything_ _ **more**_ _wrong?_ It was difficult to be too angry with himself, though. Despite the frankness that bordered on outright cruelty, Sherlock's words were a balm to Greg's soul that he didn't even realize he needed. The realization that he hadn't been taking advantage of Mycroft's compromised emotional state and insinuating himself into the man's life where he wasn't wanted was such a weight off his mind that his shoulders actually sagged once the heaviness had been lifted.

"I'm... I'm just going to shut up and keep to myself over here until I'm needed, right?" He managed to choke out the words with a genuine smile, making sure to look over at Mycroft even though the man still had his stormy blue eyes closed, one long fingered hand flung over them as if to block out as much of the outside world as possible. Which, given that he had been shoved in a room with Greg and Sherlock, may very well have been the case. Quietly, Greg inspected the fine boned features of Mycroft's face. The tension didn't seem to be alleviated, but there was something different about the man that was impossible to define. He seemed a bit softer around the edges. Even his scowl seemed to have lost some of it's potency. Which wasn't to say that it was no longer formidable; that was far from the case. Greg never wanted to find himself on the receiving end of the expression that the handsome politician was currently making. But Mycroft wore the scowl like an actual expression, rather than like a mask or a bladed weapon. It was some progress at least. A sign that perhaps finally the remainder of the solitary shell he had built around himself was finally falling away, even if Mycroft kept clutching at the broken pieces. Well, he was still badly hurt. Probably moreso now than he was when he first got back from captivity; needing to deal with the fact that he didn't deserve what happened to him throughout Uni was going to weigh heavily on him. Fortunately Greg knew he was welcome in Mycroft's life and could help pick up the pieces, thanks to a rather venomous but still somehow comforting speech from Sherlock. God knew that the younger man sounded disgusted enough by the prospect that if it hadn't been the absolute truth he wouldn't have bothered saying it at all.

Even with his rather confrontational tone, at least Sherlock had gotten through to Mycroft in the end. It was beyond Greg's wildest expectations that the younger man would have picked up so well on the emotional intricacies when he didn't really seem to put much stock in emotion, or 'sentiment' as he liked to call it. For just the briefest moment it made Lestrade's heart ache for the young man. Obviously he wasn't nearly as emotionally obtuse as he presented himself, and Greg had to wonder how much of that trait was simply Sherlock buying into what other people told him and adopting it into his personality. Much the same way that Mycroft had done with Neil's accusations of being icy and heartless. Someone really needed to do for Sherlock what he had done for his brother; make him realize that he not only had an emotional intelligence and capacity, but encourage him to use it. Ok, well Sherlock didn't do that last part, that was going to be on Greg. But still, Sherlock needed that encouragement too, or at least something like it. The DI bit back a sigh. He'd be too busy looking after Mycroft to try and help Sherlock much at all, and besides, he doubted that the surly detective would accept that help coming from him anyway. All he could do was cross his fingers and hope that some mad, stubborn person with remarkable endurance would fall for the younger Holmes the same way that he had fallen for the elder.

"Oh. And I, well. Um... Sherlock," he said, finally raising his weary brown eyes from the tangle of sheets that were still clutched in his hands. "Thank you." It wasn't much, but it was at least a start.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neil tells the greatest lie he's ever told, Mycroft comes to a decision, and Greg receives an unexpected offer.
> 
> Warnings: Eating disorders, emotionally abusive relationship, sadism, Uni-flashbacks, blackmail, fetishization of an eating disorder, "emotional torture porn", and the beginnings of some actual porn.

It struck Neil as a touch peculiar that Mycroft decided to deliver the news that he had rethought his decision to move from behind the confines of the locked bathroom door.  It had certainly seemed to him, at least, that when the younger man started talking that he was certainly going to disagree, to hold fast to his decision to remain in the dorms.  Or, if not that, then to at least be a bit more dramatic about... well... about _something_.  The need to keep a wall between them while Mycroft delivered what should have been fantastic news for both of them perplexed the blonde, but not enough to completely wipe the look of triumph off his face when his too-thin companion did finally open the door.  Out of bed with his suit coat off, Neil could finally soak in just exactly how little flesh there was on the younger man.

"There you are," he murmured in a breathy whisper before darting forward and enfolding the fragile younger man in his arms.  Strong limbs twined themselves around Mycroft's almost-skeletal form as Neil's mouth rained soft, saccharine-sweet kisses down along his forehead and cheeks, finally stopping when he reached the newly angular juncture of the younger man's shoulder and neck.

"Mmm.  I'd be more than happy to have you live here," he hummed happily into the distraught younger man's throat.  "It doesn't really matter to me what my father thinks one way or another.  He can deem you a good enough reason to stay or not, it won't change my mind or my plans.  If you move in with me, I'll sign a lease for the next three years.  A good portion of my trust fund comes to maturity upon my graduation, I'll be able to support myself without needing his fucking approval.  And to me, you're a brilliant reason to stay in London.  The only reason I need, really."

"But shhh, that's neither here nor there right now.  That wasn't even what I was worried about.  I'm worried for **you** , pet."  The slightly taller student started affectionately carding his fingers through Mycroft's hair, placing his free hand on the small of the other student's back so he could guide them both over to the mattress.  Once seated, he captured Mycroft's narrow jaw in his grip, gently drawing the younger man's face up so they were gazing eye to eye.  Emerald bored into sapphire, and Neil studied every flash of emotion, every responsive flicker for a few long, silent minutes before finally speaking.

"You've made yourself quite ill, Mycroft.  It's killing me to see you this way."  He could feel the practiced waver hit his voice in just the right way, felt his eyes water at precisely the right moment.  "To say I'm worried is a gross understatement.  I'm terrified for you.  Please, let me take care of you.  Please."  Neil brushed the pad of his thumb over Mycroft's dry lips before slowly moving forward, pressing a long but delicate kiss on the younger man's mouth.  "Please let me help you, before you hurt yourself any more. I'll do anything I can do to make it better.  Please, Mycroft, don't do this to yourself, or to me."  Another soft brush of lips against lips punctuated the end of his pleading, but Neil had one final weapon in his arsenal.  If there was ever a time for the grandest of lies, this would be it.  Gazing deeply into his companion's blue eyes, he put one broad hand on either side of Mycroft's gaunt face and whispered, " _I love you._ "

\----------------------------

Finally, finally Greg had stopped being an idiot and actually paid attention to the situation in front of him. Honestly, Sherlock was considered to be the insensitive one, and yet Greg couldn't even interpret the emotional torment of the elder Holmes correctly. Still, it was obvious that the DI cared about Mycroft; he had been entirely willing to sacrifice his own happiness for what was best for Mycroft, and the glance he cast over to study Mycroft's features was heavy with concern, with a hint at relief over the fact that his feelings were, in fact, reciprocated. Sherlock did his own stealthy check-up on his brother, studying him from the corner of his eye. Of course, Mycroft was still recovering from what had happened, but he seemed to be a bit better, softening around the edges a bit. Years of experience had taught Sherlock that Mycroft could recover from anything, even comas. Though, if Mycroft was proof of anything, it was that feelings were quite literally dangerous and Sherlock was right to stay away from them.

His only response to Greg's thanks was an eye roll and a slightly irritated sigh, turning his head away from the DI entirely. He _loathed_ assisting the DI in his pursuit of his brother, and he hadn't explained Mycroft's situation to help Greg along. It had been done for Mycroft's sake, and the slight touch of a smile on his brother's lips when he'd concluded was worth the effort. Mycroft could thank him later by not trying to draw him into any governmental work; for the moment, the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth for just a second would have to do. After all, it was only fair to repay his older brother for years of holding back nightmares and kissing cuts better. Mycroft had often been more of a parent than their actual father, and while that had led to a lot of contention between the two of them, it had also led to a particularly deep relationship. So Sherlock had been obliged to do his part to help his brother along in what could be considered an emotional crisis, even if it meant aiding Greg in his courtship. Suddenly, Sherlock had a better understanding of exactly how much frustration Anthea must have been dealing with for the past few years. Honestly, she couldn't have tried to match two more stubborn people.

A noise from his brother's bed made him turn around again, in time to see Mycroft release a slow exhale before finally removing his hand from his eyes, and opening them once again. He looked tired--of course--and a little battered--understandable--but better. If he was going to break down, it certainly wouldn't be in front of Sherlock, and it apparently wouldn't be now. That was perfectly alright with Sherlock; seeing his brother in any position of vulnerability was alarming and disturbing to him, and usually made him want to hurt whoever was responsible for making him that way. Which reminded him to make a mental note that hydrochloric acid was a wonderful way to torture Neil Gibson before killing him.

At the moment, however, all of his attention was focused sharply on Mycroft, who was turning to give Greg a slightly tired, worn-out smile. "Although my brother could have put it in an infinitely more eloquent way, I must admit that he's correct," Mycroft said, his voice absolutely steady, though Sherlock's keen eyes could pick up the slight tremor in his hands. "I apologize if I gave you the impression that you were the cause of my distress, Gregory, but the truth is quite the opposite. You've been quite a source of comfort, and I do look forward to another date with you when we're both feeling better."

Sherlock nearly gagged then and there and settled for rolling his eyes, head swiveling away from the horribly sentimental scene playing out in front of him. At least his brother was feeling better, though Sherlock could still detect the tiny hints of fear he'd picked up on from Mycroft earlier. God, Mycroft was honestly afraid of moving on with Greg. Though, really, Neil's particular brand of abuse must have been like a security blanket throughout the years; soft, warm, and smothering. Something Mycroft could always rely on, no matter how awful it was. "And yet, you haven't decided to give a statement yet," Sherlock muttered under his breath, more for himself than anyone else, though he could feel the slightly admonishing look his brother threw him before turning back to Greg. Well, good luck to Greg on that front, Sherlock had already tried his best to blackmail his brother into it. There was little else he could do.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The sense of contentment that came as Neil immediately enfolded Mycroft in his arms, positively showering the younger man with kisses, was immeasurable. It felt so fucking wonderful to just soak up the affection Neil was more than happy to bestow, bask in the warmth the older student was exuding as he hummed contentedly against Mycroft's throat, saying that he thought Mycroft was beyond a good enough reason for him to stay. This was what was really addictive about Neil. The easy affection, the plentiful kisses, the gentle concern as he led Mycroft to a seat on his bed and explained how worried he was about the younger man.

God, the fact that Neil wanted to help him, was nearly begging Mycroft to let him help him, hit Mycroft in all the right places, and he nearly lost himself in that intense forest green gaze. Neil certainly didn't have to beg him to let him help; just a look into those eyes and the amount of affection the older man was bestowing and he was sold. It didn't matter how hard he'd worked for this, how much he'd tortured himself over every inch and pound off his waistline, if Neil wanted him to get better--and was going to help him get better--it would be worth it just to see the other man smile. And then Neil uttered the three most shocking words he could have ever said to Mycroft, and Mycroft's heart stopped.

Neil--Neil--wait, wait, Neil actually--god. Mycroft could literally feel the moment the floodgates in his mind and heart opened, letting a rush of emotion into his chest, an endorphin high so strong that it nearly hurt. He never thought it was possible to be this happy, had never been close to this happy before in his life. He melted into Neil's touch, eyes softening even as he stared at the older man with something akin to outright shock, and tried to find his voice for a minute, failing each time he opened his mouth to speak. Finally, he managed to stutter out, "I--I love you too," and then he couldn't hold back his tears anymore and found himself crying against Neil's shoulder.

It was part exhaustion, part desperation, part depression, and part happiness, everything jumbled up in an emotional cocktail that was bitter to taste and cathartic at the same time. He'd been holding so much in for weeks, months, even, that to release it all at once was exhausting, relieving, and awful at the same time. It was good that he trusted Neil so much to pick up the pieces, because at this point he couldn't stop himself from falling apart in front of the other man.

\-------------------------------

Sherlock lapsed back into silence after turning Greg's entire world on its ear, and for a few long minutes the three men sat in their beds; each lost in his own head.  Greg closed his eyes, and simply tried to _breathe_.  The knotted feeling in his stomach was finally starting to loosen, along with muscles that he didn't even know were tensed.  Not that the DI thought they were out of the woods entirely.  He knew that there was still a long, rough road ahead for all of them.  A single conversation wouldn't be enough to 'fix' Mycroft, not that the man needed fixing.  Between Sherlock and Greg they had managed to get Mycroft to the point of a breakthrough.  Lestrade almost chuckled when he realized that Anthea might just have staged the world's strangest intervention.  Thanks to her invisible presence, putting them all together in a room and making sure that Greg at least was prepped with some foreknowledge, Mycroft was no longer in immediate danger of going back to Neil or trying to harm himself.  Which was excellent, **beyond** excellent.  But the next part was going to be just as difficult and much, much longer.  Getting back to 'normal' life was always difficult after a major event like they had all gone through.  Not only did Mycroft have to deal with simply recovering from all that he'd experienced, but he had to do it with an entirely new mindset.  No, Lestrade knew that it was foolish to think that this ordeal was even close to over.  But for the first time since entering the hospital he felt like he could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, and no longer feared that it was an oncoming train.

A slight rustling alerted him to movement in the bed next to his, and Greg's heart fluttered with as much force as it had back at the Diogenes Club.  Cautiously, he cracked open one brown eye.  Mycroft was actually moving; taking his hand off of his eyes and turning to look directly at Greg with those fathomless stormy blue eyes.  Lestrade's heart, which had previously resided happily in his chest, immediately leaped up into his throat.  The politician looked worn thin by the events of the last few hours.  In fact he seemed even more exhausted than when he awoke, if that were even possible.  But happier, too.  He managed a small but genuine smile as he looked at Greg, who raked a hand through his hair and tried to think of a proper way to apologize for being such a self-involved prat.  Though before he could say anything Mycroft began speaking.  No matter how tired he looked his voice was still clear and strong.  Greg couldn't help but drink in every word the auburn haired man spoke as he confirmed Sherlock's entire assessment of his mindset.  A soft blush colored the very apples of Lestrade's cheeks as Mycroft mentioned his enthusiasm for going on another date, a warmth spreading through his chest that was abruptly cut short by a sniping remark from the younger Holmes brother.

Sherlock's mention of his brother's indecision regarding giving a statement managed to drive the warm, fuzzy feelings Greg was having to the back of his mind.  That information was almost as shocking to him as Mycroft's reciprocal affections.  Lestrade had been certain that if (or rather when) Mycroft let himself realize just how sadistic Gibson truly was, how horribly he had actually been treated, that the first thing the rightfully-irate man would want to do was make certain that Neil Gibson stayed in prison.  Now, at least according to Sherlock's observation, that didn't seem to be the case.  In a way, it was not only confusing but oddly hurtful.  Mycroft had certainly taken the brunt of the psychopath's cruelty, that much was certain.  Even with Mycroft's experiences set aside, a single look at Sherlock's battered face was enough to make Lestrade want to throttle the life out of Gibson with his bare hands.  Not to mention reintroducing him to drugs.  He _needed_ to be held accountable for that.  And well, not to sound selfish or anything but the man had also tried to have Greg killed.  Twice.  Even so, the more rational part of Lestrade's brain recognized that this was **not** the time to push the issue.  There were at least a few hours left before Mycroft had to make a decision or let Neil walk free.  Greg was certain that the troubled man needed at least a few of those hours to put himself together enough to make any kind of decision.  Instead of pressing, Greg continued his conversation with Mycroft as if he hadn't heard Sherlock's words at all.

"No, I ah - I'm sorry I misinterpreted things.  We're all completely exhausted.  A few wires were bound to get crossed."  Greg gave Mycroft what felt like his first untroubled smile in a week.  It hadn't been more that a couple of days since he smiled so easily with the handsome politician in the pub, but so much had happened since then.  Even though he spent a good portion of the time asleep, either in surgery or thanks to ...other... means, it still felt like significantly more time had passed.  "But yeah.  I'm also really looking forward to going out again when we both feel up to it."

~~~~~~~~~

The sense of satisfaction that spread through Neil's body at the absolutely awed expression plastered across Mycroft's face defied description.  It was a complicated tangle of real, physical pleasure and an almost intangible sort of mental high.  He had just lied, blatantly and openly, to the smartest person he’d ever met, and the brilliant, pathetic little prodigy believed him.  More than just believed; the younger student soaked up those three perfect little words like they were the first, last, and only things that would ever matter in his life.  The rush of triumph was more exhilarating than anything he had ever felt, even rivaling the deep sense of satisfaction Neil had felt when he sent a heartbroken Mycroft away at the onset of their argument.  At that time Mycroft had been so angry that his eyes were more of a wet cement color than their usual stormy blue-grey.  Now, those same eyes were as blue as the sea just before dawn; a refined, subdued color that suited the younger man almost as well as the tears that started to well up in the corners of his eyes.

Slowly, the shocked young man seemed to find his way back to language, managing to stammer out a parroted reply before collapsing onto Neil's shoulder in a fit of tears and half-choked sobs.   Emotionally overloaded, the poor thing's brain just seemed to switch off, loosing a tidal wave of untempered emotion that he didn't have the strength to hold back.  After a few moments Neil shifted on the bed, lifting Mycroft's face gently from his now-sodden shoulder.  An odd light flickered in those lovely blue eyes, something that was the perfect medium between complete desolation and the pinnacle of hope.  Each polar emotion fought for dominance as tears spilled down Mycroft's razor sharp cheekbones.  Each renewal of the little, wet trails down those hollow cheeks cause a tight spiral of lust to coil deep in Neil's abdomen.  God, Mycroft was perfect like this; absolutely vulnerable, perfectly broken, clinging to every scrap of the older blonde's affection like a dying man to a rescue raft.

Unable to stop himself he brought his hands up to Mycroft's damp cheeks and pulled him in close, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips.  "I love you," he whispered again, enjoying the tremors it sent through the younger man's thin frame.  Carefully, he placed a kiss to the corner of each blue eye, his lips coming away with the faintest taste of salt on them.  When he pushed close for another kiss it was by far less gentle, the force almost bruising as he crushed their mouths together with unrestrained fervor.  He worked his tongue across the seam of Mycroft's mouth, deepening the kiss as the younger man opened his lips.  Ravenously, he worked his tongue against Mycroft's in long slow swipes until they were both desperate for breath before pulling his head back just far enough to rest their foreheads together.

"I've been wanting to say that to you since you left, Mycroft.  I adore you.  Absolutely and completely.  You're brilliant, and beautiful, and I will never, **ever** have my fill of you.  I love you, Mycroft Holmes.  More than anyone or anything.  I love you."

\------------------

Something like a stutter went through Mycroft's heart when Greg's face visibly fell for a moment at Sherlock's remark. He shot his brother an admonishing look that the younger man ignored, and started silently willing Greg to not say anything about it as he turned back to the DI. The fact that Sherlock could practically read his mind was really a double-edged sword. Just a few minutes ago it had been useful in helping to set Greg right about the situation without Mycroft having to say a word, and now it was being used specifically to harm. Because there was a bit of hurt in Greg's eyes when those words came out of Sherlock's mouth, and Mycroft couldn't say he blamed him. In Greg's eyes, Neil was the enemy, the adversary, practically the Devil himself. He'd done nothing but cause pain and torment for all three of them in separate ways, and true, Mycroft couldn't forgive him for the things he'd done to Sherlock and Greg, but his own situation in regards to Neil was much more complicated.

Because there were benefits and consequences to both decisions he could make, and he wasn't even sure of his own feelings on the whole matter. He still needed to sort everything out, categorize and classify, before he could come to a decision. Honestly, he wished that someone else was capable of making the statement so he wouldn't have to make a decision. But he was the only one that could; Greg hadn't had any personal contact with Neil, the attempt on his life had been carried out by lackeys, and Sherlock had been entirely unconscious for his personal contact with Neil in the limo. Mycroft was the only witness, and he had all the proof he needed in the letter contained in the pocket of his suit coat. Not to mention the emails, and the ability to testify about the blackmail, kidnapping, and various other crimes Neil had committed just to get to Mycroft. Just to get back what was his.

But Greg was mercifully ignoring the subject, no doubt relegating it to a more suitable time for discussion, and Mycroft found himself easily smiling back at the DI when he admitted he was looking forward to their date as well. Not that Mycroft had expected him to feel any other way, since the DI had been the one to propose it in the first place, but it was still always a surprise to him that Greg was interested in him. Mycroft had dated 'good men' before--government agents, lawyers, a few businessmen, and even some regular, average people--but none of them were really as good as Greg. Greg was, all around, an entirely decent and wonderful human being, and the fact that he was interested in Mycroft of all people, cold by necessity, broken, insecure Mycroft, was amazing. Almost unbelievable, really.

So Mycroft's smile back at Greg was genuine, the thought of another lovely date with him a life raft in Mycroft's flooded mind. Still, there was that touch of fear in the back of his mind, a mix of insecurity, doubt, and the perpetual looming presence of Neil. Even when he wasn't present, the man seemed to maintain a stranglehold on Mycroft's life. "The key phrase there is 'when we both feel up to it," Mycroft said with a soft smile. "I'm afraid we both have a plethora of injuries to recover from first, and no doubt I have quite a bit of work to catch up on first. I doubt Anthea will let me for as long as she can manage, but we'll have to see. That woman is much craftier than she appears. Now, I believe one of you has my mobile?"

Sherlock tossed it to him, barely even looking as he threw it, and Mycroft picked it up, swallowing when he saw that it was open to the second email from Neil, the one with pictures of Sherlock. He quickly went to the messages screen, typing out a quick message to Anthea before turning to smile at Greg again. "But that's neither here nor there at the moment. I'm afraid I've entirely neglected to ask; how are you feeling, Gregory?"

~~~~~~~~~~

Despite what Neil had just said, Mycroft still found himself terrified that the other man was going to push him away. That was combined with a hope that Neil was going to shower him with more affection, and the battle between the two was causing a physical ache in his chest. All of this was just too much for him, overwhelming, and he needed to shut his brain off before it destroyed him. So when Neil's lips brushed against his, it was a soft sigh of relief that came out of his own lips, though he started to tremble when Neil said those three words again.

And then Mycroft was drowning in the lovely feeling of Neil's  mouth and tongue and fervor and it was all too easy to open his mouth to Neil and allow the other man to dominate the kiss once again, as he always did. At the moment, he loved how forceful Neil was, almost to the point of bruising, because it really demonstrated the words Neil was saying with tangible proof. When their relationship had started, Neil had looked at Mycroft on his couch with undisguised lust and asked to prove how much he really desired Mycroft. The resulting kiss had been a lot like this, only now there was an extra layer added to it, a depth because of the words they'd exchanged. It was intoxicating, and only more so when Neil pulled back and said words that nearly made Mycroft's heart stutter to a stop.

God, if there had ever been a time when he wanted Neil, it was now. Neil seemed to respond more when Mycroft was subdued, vulnerable, which Mycroft supposed he enjoyed because it meant that Mycroft was trusting him with everything, his body, his mind, and his fragile heart. Mycroft, however, fed off of affection and emotion, and there was nothing he wanted more than to prove exactly how much he loved Neil in return with every one of the means at his disposal, and that included his frail, unhealthy body. If Neil wanted it, damaged as it was, he was more than happy to give it.

It was with that goal in mind that he slid his hand up Neil's thigh, leaning over to kiss the man with a feverish desperation, driven by the amount of emotion coursing through his body, an immeasurable amount that he just couldn't deal with at the moment. He needed his brain to shut it off now, he needed to consummate the words they'd just said to each other, he needed to prove to Neil he meant those words. He needed Neil.

\----------------------

As Mycroft spoke, part of Greg's brain was completely focused on what the man had to say.  It was so good to just hear Mycroft's voice, after so many torturous hours of not knowing if he would hear it ever again.  Part of Lestrade basked in the warm tone, the concerned gaze, the words of kindness.  It was everything he had hoped for and then some, and it was easy to nearly lose himself in the sense of actually being wanted.  God, it had been so long since he felt that way.  Sure, he belonged at The Yard.  And Sherlock accepted him for the most part, even if that acceptance was a bit colored by his general intolerance of everything and everyone.  Still, the surly detective had referred to him as 'almost not annoying' once.  That was as close to feeling wanted as a bloke could get with Sherlock Holmes.  None of that was on a personal level, though.  And as much as Greg loved and needed his career, he ached for that kind of fulfillment in his private life.  It had been years before their divorce that Janice had stopped asking him how his day was, stopped greeting him at the door with smiles and hugs and almost-too-deep kisses.  Something in the way Mycroft looked at him, the way the man's eyes gleamed just slightly when he smiled, made Greg honestly believe that feeling was something he could eventually have again, and it was almost enough to make him forget the problem the other part of his brain was worrying at like a terrier with a bone.

That part of his consciousness was simply devoted trying to figure out how exactly to approach the subject of Mycroft's statement regarding Neil.  It was necessary, so necessary.  For Mycroft's safety, for one.  Neil had proved again and again that he was more than willing to do numerous illegal things to ensure that the politician ended up back in his clutches.  And well, the things that he had done to Mycroft while the man was his captive... they could not be allowed to happen again.  Any kind of negative feedback from Neil would undoubtedly destroy all the hard-won progress that Mycroft had made since being freed.  

It was tricky, though.  As badly as Greg wanted to just break down and beg Mycroft to give a deposition for his brother's safety, for his own safety, it was quite obvious that the politician didn't want to discuss it just yet.  Greg was happy to give him the space he needed, even understood why it was necessary for Mycroft to put himself back together a bit again before he even tackled the problem.  But the officer in him burned to know that Neil was beyond hurting anyone, especially the Holmes brothers. Between his amorous affection for Mycroft and his fraternal feelings towards Sherlock the need to have Neil punished was almost consuming.  Greg wasn't a revenge driven person, he never really had been.  Justice was always more important than revenge, in his mind.  The system only worked, after all, if everyone actually adhered to it.  But fuck, if Neil didn't just make him want to beat the man down like they were in some punk-day back-alley brawl.  His knuckles positively itched every time he thought of the bastard's smug face.  Hate wasn't a strong enough word.  Loathe didn't even come close.  He wanted to obliterate Neil, completely destroy the threat he represented to the few people in this world that Greg actually cared about.

But instead of divulging all that to Mycroft, the DI smiled instead.  Was it so wrong to want to soak in that warmth and newly regained affection?  There were at least a few more hours before a decision needed to be made, and until then Neil Gibson was safely held behind bars.  There was a minimum amount of damage he could do from that position, and that meant that for now, Mycroft and Sherlock were safe.  And that was all Greg wanted, really.  Their safety.  So he smiled back at Mycroft, returning the concern in the tone of the politician's voice with an equal measure returned in his own gaze.

"Well, I've been better, honestly.  But I've been worse, too.  I'm just so glad you're back.  I'll... refrain from saying anything else as ah... well.. Sherlock looks like he's about ready to bite through steel if we display any more 'sentiment' in front of him.  But I'm healing.  I should have my discharge papers in two to three days, depending on how my hemoglobin counts come back.  God, it's good to hear your voice though.  But enough about me.  I've been here, getting cared for.  How about you?  I-I mean other than the obvious, that is.  I'm... I mean... physically, how are you holding up?  How's your shoulder?"

~~~~~~~~~~

When Mycroft moved against him with an elegant desperation, pushing back into the kiss as he slid his elegant fingers up the inseam on the thigh of Neil's trousers, the older man couldn't help but smile into their embrace.  God, it was too easy to twist the younger man's emotions.  After six months together Mycroft already completely associated a surge of emotion with sexual gratification.  It had been a subtle process, one that hadn't entirely been conscious on Neil's part, but when presented with very physical evidence of its success he was hard pressed to find any fault in the outcome.  Three simple words had turned Mycroft from a tired, starved, distraught shell into a weeping mess, and a few repetitions of the same words had turned that weeping mess into a licentious, needy wreck of a man.  Neil moaned his appreciation for Mycroft's enthusiasm loudly, his hips canting upwards in anticipation of the friction those thin, long fingers promised.

The light reflected off the still-damp tear stains on his pale, hollow cheeks and driven by a force that he couldn't quite contain Neil ran the very tip of his tongue up one trail, savoring the slightly briny taste.  He kissed the trail back down, his hands working around Mycroft's rail thin torso to drag his blunt nails down the younger man's back.  Neil could feel every rib jutting out from underneath the thin sheath of muscle and skin and oh god, it felt glorious.  Through the thin, loose fabric of his button down the older blonde clawed at him again, the feel of the protuberance of each rib under his fingertips causing his hips to stutter involuntarily against the emaciated young man in his grasp.  A heavy coil of lust tightened low in his abdomen, causing a molten sort of sensation to course up his spine and almost make him lightheaded.  It wasn't enough just to feel, he had to see.  With impatient fingers he plucked at the buttons of Mycroft's shirt, only half of them making it through the buttonholes before getting torn off in Neil's haste.  Tanned fingers tangled in ginger hair, and he yanked Mycroft back none too gently so he could rake his insatiable gaze over the younger man's form.  His emerald eyes hungrily drank in every inch of pale, freckled skin that stretched taut over jutting bone.  

Once the younger man's torso was bared, Neil trailed kisses across the entirety of Mycroft's body; his mouth traveling down the thin column of Mycroft's throat.  Hungrily, he continued to work his mouth down to Mycroft's pale chest, stopping to lavish attention across his pectorals with teeth and tongue until the younger man was writhing beneath him, each breath a gasp and each noise a shuddering moan.  He lathed the firm bud of one nipple with his tongue, applying more and more friction until the sweet noises that tumbled from Mycroft's swollen lips crossed the line between pleasure and pain.  With a self-satisfied smirk he latched his wicked mouth onto the other rose-colored bud of flesh, working it until Mycroft was nearly a sobbing mess writhing in his arms. Only once Mycroft was suitably undone did he push the younger man back onto his mattress, aligning their hips so that the heated flesh of his cock ran right along Mycroft's erection.

"Good God Mycroft, the things you make me feel..." Neil let his sentence trail off as he rutted up against the younger man, his arousal pressing firmly alongside Mycroft's hardened length.  "I can't possibly fuck you well enough to make you feel how much you mean to me."

\-------------------------------

It was impossible to quantify the feeling that spread through Mycroft's chest at Greg's words and gaze. Lovely, it was certainly lovely, but complicated enough that he couldn't define it as just one emotion. He settled for a warm affection, which he hoped was reflected in the smiles he continually bestowed upon Greg. Sherlock had clearly retreated back into his own head to avoid the two of them, so Mycroft didn't particularly care how much sentiment the younger man saw. Better that his brother adjust to the idea of Mycroft dating Greg now, so there wasn't any childish acting out about it later. Though, really, that was bound to happen anyway.

"I'm so glad to hear that you'll be released shortly, though I'm sure a few days is more than you'd like to spend in the hospital. As for my injuries...my arm hasn't been bothering me much at all, since they were kind enough to provide me with medication while I was regrettably unconscious. Besides that, I've rather had my fill of pain medication today, I think," he said with a slight grimace. His mobile went off and he smiled at Greg with an, "Apologies," before looking at it.

A status update from Anthea, and of course, her explicit, firmly stated ban on him working until he left the hospital. She also informed him that he was, preposterously, on a suicide watch and she would be sending him out of the country again once he was out of the hospital. Of course, she didn't want him anywhere near London, regardless of whether Neil Gibson was behind bars or not. It would be good for him, he was sure. It had done wonders after the accident, when he had had time to rest and relax without the constant threat of Neil hanging over his head. The weight of work, Sherlock, and Neil off of his shoulders had been a blessing. But he didn't want to go away if it meant leaving Greg to handle Sherlock on his own, not when the younger man was in such danger of a relapse. He didn't want to go period if Sherlock was in danger of relapsing. He told Anthea about as much, and turned back to Greg again with the text sent.

"Once again, it seems Anthea is determined to get me to take a vacation. But if anyone needs a vacation, I'm sure it's you, Gregory. When was the last time you took some time off from the yard?" Mycroft's mobile went off again, and with another "Apologies," he checked it.

**Details can be worked out later. Either way, you're taking a vacation until everything with Neil blows over. He tried to have Greg killed while you were in captivity, you know. Morphine drip.**

Mycroft went pale at that, though he quickly put his expression back behind its customary mask. That absolute bastard. Neil had--Neil had fucking promised him that everyone would be safe. That if Mycroft gave himself over, Greg, Sherlock, and Anthea would be entirely protected from harm. That was the deal, that was why Mycroft had agreed, he had been ensuring their protection from Neil's poisonous influence by falling on that sword instead. And Neil, evil, sadistic bastard that he was, had broken his word, deciding to have his cake and eat it too. Take Mycroft for himself anyway, and in the meantime, kill off any possible competition. No. No, Mycroft was not going to stand for this. He could handle the things that Neil did to him because of the complicated tangle of emotions  involved with his ex, but he would not stand having the criminal hurt those close to him. Not Anthea, not Sherlock, not Greg. He didn't care how pissed Neil was going to be about it, didn't care that he was cutting off his own back-up option; he had to put Neil behind bars. Not for his own sake, but for Greg's. And Sherlock's, and Anthea's, and anyone else who, heaven forbid, got close to Mycroft Holmes.

Funny, that it had been taking him so long to consider the issue, and one simple fact made his decision for him. It proved, once again, he supposed, that he cared much more about those around him than himself. Though everyone would have him believe that this decision would help him as well. If Neil was behind bars, he couldn't hurt Mycroft again. But he also couldn't be used as a back-up plan. Mycroft would be entirely on his own, left with his insecurities and the cracks in his psyche, without anything to fall back on. It was mildly terrifying when he thought about it, but he could handle it. If only for the sake of those he cared about. So, with that in mind, he sent back the four words everyone had been waiting to hear:

**I'll give a statement.**

~~~~~~~~~~~~ **  
**

God, Neil's mouth should have been registered as a dangerous weapon considering how completely it managed to make Mycroft come undone in such a short amount of time. The worst thing--or best, depending on your point of view--was how easily it traveled. From Mycroft's lips to his cheeks to his throat to his chest, clothing coming off in a frenzy in the meantime, until there was nothing Mycroft could do but pant and whine and moan against Neil, a mind already stressed splintering into senseless pieces. He didn't mind how roughly Neil manipulated him, either, because he was used to the older man's ferocity by now and he attributed it to the long separation between them that had them both aching for the other.

Certainly, the long absence of Neil's touch--or anyone's for that matter--combined with the words that came out of Neil's kiss-reddened lips were what made Mycroft's hips automatically cant up to fully catch Neil's length against his own. He was amazed that Neil was even capable of words at the moment, considering he himself was hardly capable of thought and was entirely focused on each little shock of pleasure that went up his spine each time Neil's hips moved against him. It was lucky that Neil actually had some body fat on him, because the steady rocks against Mycroft's pronounced hipbones almost hurt. Already, he was feeling a little dizzy from the amount of physical activity, and it was half lust and half a need to anchor himself that led him to lean up to kiss Neil again, wrapping his arms around the older man's neck to pull him down on top of him.

It was a mess of teeth and tongue and desperation and need, and when Mycroft finally broke it off he was nearly gasping for air, feeling more lightheaded than before. Somehow, through the haze of lust and dizziness, he managed to stutter out, "Oh god, N-Neil, please, I need you." He was almost past the point of coherency but Neil didn't seem to mind, had never minded, and Mycroft's back arched off the bed to meet Neil's thrusts more fully, his eyes slipping shut.

\----------------------------

Mycroft's assurances about his health were greatly needed, and Greg could scarcely believe how much hearing that the man hadn't sustained any additional injuries while in captivity relieved him.  The sour look that accompanied his comment about painkillers made Lestrade wince slightly; he hadn't really thought the question through if he didn't realize that it would call up some rather sore points.  Rather than focus on the uncomfortable subject, which Mycroft seemed more than happy to avoid, he started to ask Mycroft some other half-formed question when the man's phone chimed and he apologized before answering it.  When he came back up, Mycroft seemed to have regained his slightly better mood.  The politician smiled as he commented on how Anthea had planned to get Mycroft to take some time off work.

"Anthea is a very smart woman," Greg answered with a smile of his own.  "Honestly, I used to wonder how you were able to get so much done, but after working with her I understand completely.  She's a phenomenal woman.  So, are you thinking about taking a holiday after you've been released?"  Greg couldn't help the brief look of worry that crossed his face.  There was no chance in hoping that Mycroft hadn't noticed; those cobalt eyes were focused on him with an intensity that the DI found immeasurably pleasing.  After all, how many people had the pleasure of being the sole focus of Mycroft Holmes's considerable focus?  The idea that such an extraordinary man found him worth his attention made a warm tingle spread through his chest, spreading out until even his fingertips buzzed slightly with the sensation.  The thought of not having that around, even for a few weeks, was vaguely troubling.  Especially because, as ashamed as Greg was to admit it, he was still vaguely worried about Mycroft finding someone better despite the man's plainly stated interest in him.  Even so, it was about Mycroft's recovery, not his own personal preferences and obviously co-dependent nature.  One date, and already he didn't want the politician to be too far away from him.  The thought was almost enough to make Lestrade chuckle, but he managed to transmute it into another smile as he gazed back at Mycroft.

"I agree completely.  You really do deserve to get away for a week or two.  You'd be missed, of course."  Greg looked over at Sherlock for a moment, before he focused his chestnut colored gaze on Mycroft, silently willing the unbelievably observant man to pick up on his thoughts.   _It's ok, you can go.  I promised I'd look after him.  And I will.  I won't let anything happen to your brother.  Not after everything we've all been through.  If I have to handcuff myself to him, I'll do it._  "But I think we'd all be able to carry on without too much trouble."

"As for me?  Oh... God. I don't even really remember."  The last proper vacation that he had was lost somewhere in the blurred haze that was his internal timeline.  During Janice, before the bad years happened, after being promoted to DI... that was about as close as he could get to pinning down a date.  So more than three years ago at least.  And the last time he took leave from work was the week of his divorce.  He hadn't intended to take more than a day, and even that was just for signing legal documents.  But one day quickly spiraled into two, then a whole week had passed and Lestrade hadn't left his flat except to procure more alcohol and cigarettes.  It hardly counted as a 'vacation' by any stretch of the imagination, so he didn't mention it.  No sense in bringing the mood down when they had managed to win back at least a small amount of normalcy.

The politician's mobile chimed for a second time, and just as quickly as the first text lifted the man's mood, the second message seemed to plunge Mycroft back into worry.  He visibly blanched before resuming his well-practiced mask.  So, whatever Anthea (presumably at least) had sent him, it was bad news.  Perhaps Neil was being released?  No, that was unlikely.  Sally would do everything she could to hold the sadistic fuck for as long as possible.  Sergeant Donovan was nothing if not determined and downright immovable when she decided to do something.  If he didn't hate the man so much, Greg would have spared a moment to pity Neil's legal team.  They truly had no idea what they were in for.

Mycroft, on the other hand, seemed to have retreated into his head for the time being.  Something about the utterly blank look on the man's aristocratic face caused Greg's heart to spasm painfully.  The kind of protective isolation Mycroft wrapped around him like a security blanket was completely understandable, but now that he understood the reason behind the behavior it became impossible for Greg to not think about what the man had been put through.  Not just over the last few days, but over the course of his entire life.  Worry grabbed Greg's heart and ran off with it, depositing it somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach.

"Hey," he called out softly, not wanting to startle the politician while he was lost deep in thought.  "Is everything ok?"

~~~~~~~~

The air of desperation Mycroft put into their kiss was addictive, and Neil hungrily drank up each frantic clash of teeth and tongue.  As he thrust his hips against the smaller man, Mycroft's gasps and cries took on an almost pained air, the sharpness of them raking sharp nails of sensation down Neil's spine.  God, this was _hurting_ him.  And he _wanted_ it.  Was absolutely frantic with need despite obviously not being in condition to endure.  It was the most beautiful image Neil had ever seen; the complete subversion of Mycroft's own well-being to cater to his emotional needs and Neil's very physical demands.  Small whimpering noises tumbled from the younger man's mouth, sinfully red lips parted slightly as he gasped and keened out his pleasure and pain each time their cocks slid up against one another.

With the added friction Mycroft seemed to come apart completely, head rolling loosely on his shoulders as he begged, begged Neil for more of the same.  Even his constantly-sharp blue eyes fluttered closed, surrendering the last of his independent senses as the older man rocked his hips.  Neil could feel every muscle in Mycroft's body underneath the thin layer of his skin, felt his abdomen tighten as he arched artfully upwards to meet each roll of Neil's hips with an equal thrust of his own.  Responding in kind, Neil thrust even harder, reducing their movements to a repeated short but deep grind of cock against cock, digging even deeper and pushing a bit harder into the unfathomably beautiful and desperate creature below him..  Unable to hold back a predatory growl, Neil pushed back against Mycroft with equal fervor, kissing his way back up the younger man's throat to let his lips come to rest against the curve of his ear.

"What do you need, Mycroft?"  Neil's voice was a low, lusty purr, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of Mycroft's ear as he spoke.  "Do you want me to get you off like this, rutting against you while you moan and gasp and rock those pretty hips of yours against me?"  He punctuated the words by giving a few hard, slow thrusts against the man beneath him.  "Or would you rather me take you, fill you with my cock and fuck you while I whisper your name over and over again?  Tell me exactly what you need, tell me and I'll give it to you."

\-----------------------------------------

It was a significant effort to drag himself back out of his thoughts, but the concern in Greg's tone helped Mycroft to forcefully pull out of his own head and back into the real world. As he looked back over at the DI in his hospital bed, he considered how truly amazing Greg Lestrade was. Not only had the man been stabbed, had two people close to him threatened, injured, and kidnapped, but he'd also had a second attempt on his life that, most likely out of a desire to protect Mycroft from himself after everything that had happened, he'd entirely neglected to mention. Greg had this habit of trying to downplay the things that happened to him, as if each injury didn't matter so long as everyone else was okay. For Mycroft, who was much the same way with those close to him, it was beyond frustrating. How could he take care of Greg if Greg didn't even want to tell him he'd nearly died once again? The DI was an impossible, selfless man, and Mycroft was beginning to see the actual impact he'd had on him, from the worry that crossed his face when Mycroft mentioned leaving, to the secrets he kept to protect Mycroft's fragile heart from blaming himself for more things.

Well, the last thing he wanted was to cause Greg more worry. "Ah, yes, everything's perfectly alright," he said, smoothly slipping back into a practiced politician's smile. Greg would know it was a lie, but that was hardly the point. As long as the other man didn't know the real reason behind it, it was fine. "We were discussing holidays, correct? I'm afraid Anthea will probably insist that I go away for a short time, but I will try to postpone if at all possible."

His mobile chimed again, and he quickly read the message.

**Good, I'll get things in motion on that front. Greg can come on vacation with you.**

Mycroft faintly blushed; he could almost feel the implied wink at the end of the text. Clever, clever Anthea, always pushing for the things she knew he wouldn't push for on his own. On one hand, it was something that he knew he needed from her, and on the other, it was a constant nuisance not to be able to get away with things when she was involved. She clearly was determined to help him along with Greg as much as she could, even if the two of them were already moving things along just fine, thank you.

He turned back to Greg, a genuine smile on his lips this time as he considered the best way to broach the subject. It was a rather odd thing to invite the man he'd gone on one date with to go on an extended vacation with him, but after everything that had happened in the past few days, it was absolutely deserved. Besides, Greg seemed to dislike the idea of Mycroft going away, even if he tried not to show it, so perhaps Mycroft could find a way to ease that worry. Repay Greg a bit for what he'd done and was continuing to do. "Of course, if the proper arrangements could be made--" _for Sherlock_ , he added mentally "--you would be more than welcome to come with me," he said smoothly, his tone nothing but polite, though a hint of hopefulness was creeping in.

It wasn't until he actually proposed the idea that he realized how much he wanted it, in truth. A vacation with Greg sounded more than lovely. A chance for the two of them to get away, get to know each other without any interference. Greg deserved a vacation if it had been so long since he’d had one, and certainly a decrease in the stress in his life would make it easier for him to recover from his wounds. Yes, once again, Anthea knew what Mycroft wanted better than he did, wonderful woman that she was. "I'm certain that a vacation from the stress of your work would be very good for you, and I would be delighted to have your company. It's perfectly alright if you don't want to go, however. I can't promise I will be very good company for most of our time there."

His vacation after the accident certainly hadn't been pretty for the most part. For one thing, he had walked with a pronounced limp while using his brolly as a cane, and his eating disorder had started up again, though the doctor who did his check-ups while he was away had had absolutely none of it. He must have been handpicked by Anthea because he immediately proceeded to call Mycroft on his bullshit and carefully regulated his diet until Mycroft finally gave up and started eating in a regular, healthy pattern again, though it took a while. The fact that he was emotionally bullying himself every day didn't help either, but it was entirely deserved. Because even though the man had nearly killed him, he'd still wanted Neil. But perhaps if he had Greg there, that urge wouldn't hit him quite so strongly this time, though using the DI as a crutch and moving his addiction from one man to another wouldn't exactly be a good thing either. It had taken so long for Mycroft to become anything resembling independent, and he didn't want to lose that now.

~~~~~~~~~

The pain induced by each rough roll of Neil's hips was eclipsed by the pleasure Mycroft was drowning in, whimpering and gasping for air like a dying man. The things that Neil did to him were nearly dangerous in their intensity, though this was the first time he'd physically hurt this much from them. It didn't make him stop, though, and a shiver ran down his spine when Neil began to whisper sinfully in his ear, asking him what he needed. Neil, he needed Neil. Needed the promise held in every word that voice uttered in a seductive purr. God did that voice do unbelievable things to him.

"Fuck me, Neil, I need you to fuck me," Mycroft said breathlessly, the curse words sounding even filthier coming out in his posh accent. All proper behavior and decorum was utterly lost when Neil and a bed were involved, Mycroft shedding his second skin of etiquette in the way that usually made Neil thrust harder against him, kiss him with more force. But god, were those words true. He wanted nothing more than to be filled to the brim with Neil, come with nothing but a cry of the older man's name on his lips. He didn't care if his body was barely in the condition to withstand it. He needed Neil and he needed him now.

He emphasized his point by gripping the front of Neil's shirt, grinding his hips up against the other man in a way that almost had him come undone right then and there. If he didn't feel Neil inside him soon, he was going to go insane. Even though the separation between them had only been a few weeks, it was several weeks too long for Mycroft. The way that Neil shut his brain off completely was absolutely addictive, and without it, Mycroft's stress had been increased tenfold in the time they were apart. It made him needy to the point of abandonment, as he leaned up to pant in Neil's ear, "I need you inside me, **now**."

\-------------------------------------

The initial wave of worry that swept over Greg had deposited his heart in his stomach, so when it sank even further as Mycroft closed himself off further, it felt almost as if his heart had dropped all the way to his feet or perhaps out of his body completely.  The way that the carefully practiced politician's smile settled effortlessly onto Mycroft's aristocratic features renewed the vaguely sick feeling that the DI felt every time he felt rejected by the other man.  Just like that, the icy wall was back in place and instead of feeling the warm kind of closeness that had been building between them Greg felt like Mycroft was miles away.

_I should get used to this,_ he chided himself.   _It probably isn't because he doesn't trust me, he's just protecting himself.  And rather than say "I don't want to talk about it" like most people would, he just retreats behind that fucking empty smile.  Not that he's had many good reasons to do otherwise; closing himself off is just what he's used to doing.  It's a survival technique.  You do the same damn thing, Lestrade.  Cut the man a break.  If I want him to trust me, I've got to trust him in return._

His train of thought was completely derailed by Mycroft's next statement.  It was difficult for Lestrade not to stare at the man with his mouth agape.  Did... Did Mycroft just invite him along on a holiday?  His heart, suddenly restored to its rightful place in his chest, fluttered with a delightful kind of anticipation.  That was... wonderful.  Unexpected, but wonderful.  Anthea had explained that a large portion of Mycroft's recovery post-accident had occurred during his 'vacation', so the idea that Mycroft wanted him along for something that was so integral to regaining his center of self was... well....  the way it made Greg feel defied a simple explanation.  He felt wanted, delighted, a bit nervous, and protective of Mycroft all at once, each distinct feeling tumbling over the others in an effort to push itself to the forefront of Greg's brain. _I'll have to check with Anthea to make sure this is all sanctioned and... wait.  This was probably her idea_.  The thought strangely didn't cause his excitement to fade any.  Because even if Anthea was the mastermind behind the design, Mycroft had not only agreed but made the offer himself.

"I... ah.  Well, I **am** still suspended," the DI said with a bit of a wry smile.  "Between resolving that and medical leave, I'm sure I can get a few weeks off.  Because ah.  Well.  Not to sound too forward," he was interrupted briefly by Sherlock's irritated scoff, "But accompanying you on at least part of your vacation sounds lovely.  And please, don't worry about being good company or not.  I'm also quite content to curl up with a book or the telly if you need some time alone.  It'll be your vacation too, and I don't expect you to play host to me just because I'm tagging along.  A-and thank you for even inviting me along in the first place, Mycroft.  It means a great deal to me."

_Sherlock... we'll still need to make sure that he's taken care of before we go.  Hell, maybe we could even stay in London for a few weeks just to be sure that there isn't any danger of relapse after Neil fucking injected the poor kid with heroin.  Utter bastard.  Or even worse than relapse, we need to make sure that Sherlock doesn't end up in jail for murder._ Greg wracked his brain for a solution to the problem, but came up with nothing at all that would sufficiently make him feel good about leaving town.  It did nothing to dampen his spirits.  Between Anthea, Mycroft, and himself they were bound to think of something.  And if not, well, at least Mycroft **wanted** to go away with him, even if they didn't actually get to do it.  That thought alone was enough to keep the fluttery, warm feeling in his chest alive, and he gazed at Mycroft with no small amount of affection in his brown eyes, wordlessly thanking the man for thinking to include him.

~~~~~~~

As Mycroft became further and further unraveled beneath him, Neil couldn't help but push harder and harder against his too-thin frame.  The cries of pleasure and pain were starting to blur together, one become indistinguishable from the other as the younger man gasped and whimpered beneath him at each glorious moment of friction between them.  Body shivering and voice tremulous, Mycroft finally seemed to find his voice, that sweetly breathless sound making Neil's body positively ache with need.  The sound of the younger student's aristocratic accent wrapping itself around the short but desperate litany of filth sent white hot sparks blazing through each of Neil's nerve endings, and his own hips stuttered involuntarily into the other man.  Stripping Mycroft of his ever-present dignity and formality was an aphrodisiac the likes of which Neil had yet to experience the equivalent of.  Something about teasing the beautiful yet reserved man until he was an aching, swearing, moaning mess of wantonness made every vein in Neil's body pulse with feral need.

"God, Mycroft, your fucking **voice**..." he growled, nipping lightly at the pale expanse of throat so lovingly bared to him before pulling away.  Within a second his hands were working at the closure of Mycroft's trousers, eager fingers working the zip open and tugging at the waistband.  The older blonde was quite pleased to see reddened marks starting to bloom on the hard, exposed curvature of the smaller man's hipbones; those were going to develop into some lovely bruises.  God, Mycroft was so delicate in this state, and yet still had no thought or concern for his own comfort or safety.  He gasped and writhed despite his sunken eyes and pallid skin and _fuck_...  It was the most incredible thing Neil had ever seen.  Roughly, he palmed Mycroft's length through the damp fabric of his pants, reveling in the guttural moan it drew from the man.

"Strip.  And don't stop talking,” he ordered, drawing back from Mycroft so he could work at his own trousers.  "Tell me how badly you need this, love."  The cool air of the bedroom hit him unexpectedly, sending a chill down his spine.  The cooler temperature was a stark contrast to the heated friction his cock had been enjoying just a moment ago.  Fortunately, it helped to cool his desire some as well... he hadn't noticed how close he was to completely letting go, and that simply wouldn't do.  No, when Mycroft begged for his cock so sweetly he deserved to get exactly what he asked for.  Neil leaned over to procure a bottle of lube from his bedside table, drizzling some over his fingers before settling back onto the mattress on his knees.  He adjusted the almost absurdly lean, pale lengths of Mycroft's legs so he was kneeling between them.  Slowly, Neil worked one hand up between the younger man's thigh, training his slick fingers down the sensitive skin of his scrotum before letting it trail back further, seeking out the tight ring of muscle to prepare his "love" for the fuck of his sad, lonely little life.

\------------------------

Mycroft's fingers could hardly move fast enough to obey Neil, his clothing somehow managing to make it off and onto the floor piece by piece. It was actually good that the older man had moved away from him, because it allowed his bruised body a break and an opportunity to slowly come back down the incline it had started to climb from the friction between them. He knew that in just a few hours his hips would be showing bruises, not to mention what other injuries he had sustained from Neil thus far or would sustain in a few minutes, but at the moment he was so high on endorphins and adrenaline that he barely cared. That was something to worry about later. Right now he had to worry about managing to get off his clothes and somehow speak at the same time.

It was an unbelievable effort to find his voice once again, drag more words out of a dry throat that had difficulty with anything more eloquent than a moan. But he managed, because Neil had ordered him to and in bed--and most other places, if he was being honest--he did what Neil said. "God, Neil, there aren't words to say how much I need this. I need you, and your cock, and I need you to fuck me into this bed as hard as you can manage. I--" His words stuttered to a stop when the first finger broached his entrance, the intrusion slightly uncomfortable until Neil crooked his finger slightly to brush across Mycroft's prostate, a breathy moan escaping in the place of words.

That tantalizing finger paused, though, and Mycroft's hazy blue eyes found Neil, the older man giving him a look to prompt him to continue. "I--I--god, fuck me, Neil, now, I don't--I don't care if I'm ready just fuck me--" He trailed off again, having trouble focusing his attention. It had been too long since this, and he was too tense still to just let Neil take him now. But god did his body seem to be screaming for that, even as Neil's fingers inside him reduced him to a quivering, inarticulate mess.

~~~~~~~~~~

At the mention of Greg's suspension, Mycroft nearly winced. Ah, yes, another one of Neil's demands that Mycroft had dutifully carried out, only to have the whole thing thrown back in his face when Neil, once again, broke his promise. Honestly, it was amazing that he'd believed the man in the first place. After everything Neil had done, all of the lies over the years, Mycroft still fell for the same old trick hook, line, and sinker. It was sad, really. He was still so eager to believe Neil, to please him, despite everything. The vaguely sick feeling at the mention of the suspension turned into irritation at his brother's light scoff.

Of course, Sherlock was going to do his best to be an absolute child about this. He already thought Greg was being beyond forward, and the thought of the two of them taking a vacation together must have brought out his surly side in full force. If it weren't for Sherlock's inherently stubborn and independent nature, Mycroft might have expected him to stage a relapse just to keep his brother in London and away from the DI. But the younger man knew that Mycroft would repay him in kind, becoming such an overbearing presence in his life that he would feel smothered by brotherly concern and affection. No, if Sherlock relapsed it would be very real and extremely bad.

But all of his doubts and ill feelings were swept away as Greg continued to speak, the DI's words and the warm affection in his eyes making something in Mycroft melt. God, the man was so thankful just to be invited along on a vacation. Not even a proper vacation, a rather sad one that was more of a getaway for Mycroft to recover physically and emotionally from the beyond distressing events of the past few days, not to mention his entire relationship with Neil. A time to pick up the pieces and try to put something resembling a normal life back together again. He didn't want to put that much of a weight on Greg, and he wondered if the DI really knew what he was getting into by accepting. Then he remembered that Anthea had talked extensively with Greg, and the awful thought crossed his mind that Greg might know about much more than he was letting on, including the eating disorder. Oh god.

He painted on a smile again, though this one held some of the genuine affection he felt for Greg in it, determined to show the man a put-together outward shell even if pieces were still coming off internally. Fuck. If he relapsed with Greg around...he couldn't imagine putting the other man through that. "There's no need to thank me," he said genially. "I would be delighted to have you accompany me, and considering how much you've done during this entire situation, including saving my life outside the pub, it would only be right for me to invite you along." He heard something akin to a growl from Sherlock at this, but pointedly ignored his younger brother. "Besides that, I find your company to be exceptional. I think it would be very beneficial to us both."


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft physically apologizes to Neil for leaving and Greg and Mycroft make plans for their vacation together.
> 
> Warnings: Eating disorders, emotionally abusive relationship, sadism, Uni-flashbacks, introspection, fetishization of an eating disorder, "emotional torture porn", and some actual porn.

Neil noted with no small amount of pleasure how Mycroft's thin frame trembled with exertion as he slowly worked his finger inside the younger man, curling his finger just-so to push against the taut bundle of nerves he was seeking out.  The lovely entreaties that tumbled from Mycroft's lips stuttered to a halt, and Neil momentarily considered punishing his frail partner for the transgression.  All he had a chance to do was to stop the slide of his finger inside the younger man's crushingly tight passage; before he could think of an appropriate admonition Mycroft was speaking again and oh... how those words surged through Neil.  His already impossibly hard erection throbbed with each sweet entreaty; Mycroft keening as he begged Neil to fuck him despite his lack of sufficient preparedness.  

Without intending to, the older blonde moaned his appreciation for the younger student's enthusiasm.  Yes.  God.  Fucking Mycroft into the mattress _right then_ sounded like the most wonderful proposition he had heard in his entire life.  Dimly, some part of his fevered brain recognized that while the younger man's distress and fragile state were contributing to his staggering allure, taking him unprepared would undoubtedly lead to injury.  And that simply would not do.  Neil planned on making up for every single missed moment between them, fucking Mycroft senseless as much as he could possibly manage over the next week.  After all, Mycroft still owed him an apology, and if the auburn haired young man was going to be so perfectly fuckable in his desperation Neil planned to wring every beautiful 'I'm sorry" from the boy's sensitive, tender flesh.  However, that meant waiting to fuck Mycroft now until he was sufficiently prepared, even if finally being able to sate the darker inclinations of his carnal desires once again drove the older student to the very limits of his self control.

Instead of granting the younger man's cried request he slid another finger into him, carefully scissoring and stretching the unbelievably tight muscles that clenched down around him, making sure to run his fingers along the younger man's prostate with every few thrusts.  His own rigid length gave a frustrated twitch at each buck of Mycroft's hips.  The exertion of his movements caused Mycroft's body to tremble, his thighs shaking with each well timed thrust back onto Neil's fingers.  Fuck, he was still so goddamned _tight_.  The combination of emotional distress and exhaustion had caused every muscle in his thin frame to tense.  With a half-growl, half-sigh, Neil withdrew his hand before pressing three fingers back into his partner.

"C'mon lovely," he murmured, voice rough with sheer, unrestrained _want_.  "Endure just a little more for me, love.  For me."  Neil reached up with his free hand, seeking out and twining his fingers with Mycroft's, giving them a reassuring squeeze.  "You can relax, love.  I've got you."

~~~~~~

Sherlock's wordless growl of protest brought a smile to Greg's lips, and he had to bite back an amused chuckle.  God, Sherlock really was going to be a brat about this.  In a way, it delighted the DI.  Not just because a petulant Sherlock reminded him a bit of his own brother, but because it was good to see the dark haired young man emote about anything.  It must have been the fact that Mycroft had just recently recovered some of his emotional equilibrium that kept the younger Holmes from actually voicing his complaints instead of ignoring them while grumbling to himself.  Though thinking of Sherlock brought Greg's attention back to one of the several unresolved issues that stemmed from the original Neil-related crisis.  The detective had been dosed, given heroin.  Cocaine was Sherlock's drug of choice; Greg knew most of the younger man's preferences thanks to numerous busts and subsequent confiscations on Sherlock's various places of residence.  Heroin wasn't something that frequently graced Sherlock's supply, but Lestrade had seen it once or twice.  Plus, exposure to any mood or mind altering substance could easily trigger a relapse in a recovering addict, even if the drug was unrelated to what the person was hooked on before.  Fucking Neil Gibson.  A sharp twinge in Greg's wrist alerted him to the fact that he had clenched his hands into fists so tight that it was making his fingers ache.  Slowly, he released his grip, one finger at a time, before gently starting to massage his own hands.  

Neither Sherlock nor Neil were entirely able to keep Greg's mind off Mycroft's words.  At least not for very long.  Especially not when the man was going to do things like call him "exceptional company".  The words made Lestrade's cheeks color slightly.   Praise from Mycroft was, as it has been before, something that made his blood run a little bit hotter than normal.  Mycroft sounded positively pleased as he emphasized just how much he wanted Greg to come along with him on holiday.  Though that did remind him; Anthea had warned him about Mycroft possibly transitioning his emotional dependence from Neil to Greg, looking for someone to fill that role for him.  That certainly wasn't what Greg wanted.  He didn't want to be a crutch, or a replacement.  He wanted to be a partner, someone who would help and support Mycroft's healing process along.  And part of that process had to be the oft-abused politician centering himself as a person again, as well as learning how to approach relationships in a healthy way.  Previous to Neil, Mycroft had seemed calm, confident, and even slightly willing to open up and share his thoughts and feelings.  There was absolutely every chance of him being able to return to that state of mind.  Neil might have fucked things up temporarily, but the independent, self-assured Mycroft that Greg had known for two years prior to this incident was just as much a part of him and just as real as his current emotional state.  Time, and a bit of therapy perhaps, would help him regain what had been temporarily lost.

So as eager as Greg was to simply dive right in, and accompany Mycroft wherever it was the man wanted to go, part of him wanted to stay behind as well.  Give Mycroft his space.  The idea of the man going away still sent pangs through his heart; perhaps that was a testament to his own ability to form unhealthily deep attachments to people.  He felt a surge of gratefulness that most of the travel arrangements would be made or at least supervised by Anthea; she'd know what was best, as she always seemed to.  And she'd have no qualms about telling Greg if she thought that his presence would be an impediment to Mycroft's recovery in any way.  She wanted to see them together quite badly, that had become obvious over the last 48 hours.  It was still incredibly obvious that Mycroft was her number one priority though, and she wouldn't let her (or their) desire to see Greg and Mycroft as a couple stand in the way of the politician's healing process.  For the millionth time in the past two days, Greg felt an overpowering thankfulness for the petite PA's innumerable skills.   _This what Mycroft must feel like all the time,_ he mused, overwhelmed with gratefulness for Anthea.   _As he rightly should._

"I'd really, really like that," Greg answered, trying to keep the somewhat bashful blush off his face as he answered the politician.  “Time away with you... well... it sounds like exactly the thing I've been waiting to take time off for.  I find you... I mean... well.  Fuck," he muttered, tripping over his words partially from excitement but also partially due to the wave of exhaustion that was washing over him.  Pressing his lips into a thin line and drawing his brows together for a moment seemed to help him focus, and with a sheepish smile he continued.  "Well, what I mean to say is this.  You're wonderful.  Spending time with you away from all this chaos sounds fantastic."

\------------------------------------

Fuck, the more Neil's fingers pushed against him the harder it was for Mycroft to listen to and obey the older man, everything getting lost in each pleasurably paralyzing brush against his exposed nerves as Neil expertly sought out the spot he knew would make Mycroft keen. And it went beyond keening; he was practically writhing against the sheets, his hips pressing back against Neil's fingers even as his body trembled, hovering at the brink of over exertion without quite teetering over. It was too hard to drag himself out of the lovely senseless pleasure Neil was working him into to actually pay attention, but then those lovely fingers were removed and Mycroft managed to focus enough to actually hear what Neil was saying, and then two digits became three and he was gasping again, an edge of pain in it this time.

Relaxing was a lot easier said than done, when his body had been in a tense, stressed state for weeks now that had been significantly exacerbated in the past few days and hours, every muscle on high alert and his entire body holding itself up with sheer adrenaline. Dropping that could mean possibly losing consciousness again, and there was absolutely no way he was going to miss out on having this with Neil. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths, focusing on Neil's words and what should have been a relatively simple request from the older man. Come on. Mycroft had done this dozens of times before with Neil, and now his own damn body was holding him back even as it urged him forward. Maybe there would be some benefit in eating to regain a little control. At the moment, though, it was a conscious effort to relax around Neil, his body slowly, slowly giving in, ceding control to the older man. It meant Mycroft had to shift the tension to his free hand, gripping the sheets tightly enough to turn his knuckles white, but that was about all he could do anyway, considering the tortuous way Neil was teasing him open, nearly making Mycroft cry with the drawn out, tantalizingly pleasurable process. Each brush against that same almost unbearably sensitive spot caused his hips to buck back more and more desperately against Neil's hand as Mycroft slowly lost his mind against the sheets.

"Neil--god, Neil--I need, I need--god, just fuck me, please, I can't stand it--j-just fuck me--" He wasn't even consciously aware of what he was saying anymore, just knowing that enough repetitions of Neil's name and a plea to be fucked by him in that breathy, destroyed voice would eventually get him what he wanted, even if it took far longer than he wanted it to. The rational part of Mycroft that would have reminded him of the dangers of engaging in this unprepared was utterly gone, buried somewhere under moans and desperate hips and breathy pleas against the sheets. Neil always managed to make him come so completely, so utterly undone, and it was one of the most addictive things in the world. He squeezed the hand holding his tightly, disregarding the amount of pressure he was applying but being reassured by the pet names from Neil and the stabilizing grip. Thank god the older man was stabilizing him, because otherwise he wasn't sure if he could keep his bearings about him or remain conscious.

~~~~~~~~~

At Greg's words, Mycroft gave him a genuine, affectionate smile, but it was brief, as his mind had already turned to other things, his senses growing somewhat distant as he retreated back into his own head, his constantly churning mind focused on finding a solution to the biggest problem with this plan; what to do with Sherlock. Because he couldn't leave without having the younger man cared for, but Greg was the only person he trusted to do that and he wanted Greg to come with him. Somehow he had to balance both things, even if it meant sacrificing his own desires for what was best for his brother. As he always did. Well, Greg didn't have to stay to take care of Sherlock permanently; perhaps he could stay temporarily while Mycroft went away and then join him a little while later. That would probably actually be best for everyone involved. That way, Sherlock could have the care he needed until he was in a stable place, Greg could take some time to sort out his affairs here, and Mycroft would have some time to recover by himself, regain some equilibrium so he wouldn't transfer his emotional dependence from one man to another. It was quite the elegant solution, actually, but the hard part would be getting Sherlock to accept it.

Because he knew that Greg would be on board--the DI was nearly as protective of Sherlock as Mycroft was because of the history of his own brother--but Sherlock would hate it. The very idea of the DI staying to take care of him, which would involve moving in temporarily to watch his every move, would instantly make him start spitting venom at anyone in support of the idea, which meant the two other occupants of the hospital room. The last thing either Greg or Mycroft needed at the moment was a tongue lashing from the younger man, though Greg would probably get the worst of it since Sherlock was already nursing a grudge against the DI. And that was unacceptable. So how to get the other man to agree to it? Well, blackmail usually worked pretty well, and Mycroft had bargained with his brother in the past to get him to cooperate. Usually that meant promising not to bother him with governmental cases, but in this case he had much more valuable leverage.

Mycroft turned to look at his brother and a moment later Sherlock turned to him, his gaze sharp. "You've decided," he said in his firm baritone, so certain that he knew his brother's thoughts.

"I'll make you a deal," Mycroft answered, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I'll give the statement against Neil, but you have to allow Gregory to live with you for a week to ensure that you stay clean." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, clearly furious with the very idea, but Mycroft cut him off quickly with, "This is the only agreement I'll make, Sherlock. I give my statement, Neil goes to prison, and Gregory stays with you to make sure you stay sober. A week at the most, which I'm sure you can endure. Your other option is to reject the deal, I'll see to it that Neil makes it out of prison, and Gregory and I will look after you anyway whether you like it or not. Which are you going to choose?" Ah, nothing worked quite like fraternal guilt to motivate his brother. Really, it was a mix of guilt and righteous fury, because Neil Gibson had not only destroyed Mycroft, he'd also personally wronged the younger Holmes as well. So no matter what, the detective would view Neil behind bars as the best option. The only right one. And though his brother was never the type to talk about romantic ideals, he did have a strong sense of justice.

Sherlock was silent for a minute, visibly fuming over the fact that his brother, once again, had outmaneuvered him. Check and mate. "Fine," the younger man said after a few minutes, as much hostility packed into that word as he could possibly manage. Mycroft knew his brother was absolutely going to hate every second spent under Greg's watch, but at this point, it was necessary. He let out a relieved deep breath and turned back to Greg with a slight smile. His voice was smooth when he spoke again, layered with diplomatic honey though he was sure he would already have Greg's approval. "Is that solution amenable to you as well, Gregory?" Mycroft asked, blue eyes focused on the other man. "After the week we could easily arrange for you to join me wherever Anthea places me for my vacation."

\------------------------------------

Ever so slowly, Mycroft's body began to relax around the intrusion of Neil's fingers, though it may have been the only part of his extraordinarily thin frame that wasn't pulled completely taut.  The long fingers that were intertwined with his were clutching at him almost painfully; Mycroft grasping at his hand with a desperation normally reserved for people falling off cliffs.  The older blonde looked upwards, drinking in the sight of his normally so prim and proper partner coming completely and wholly undone.  Normally impeccable auburn hair fanned out around his fine boned face, giving him an almost halo-like effect of short ginger curls.  His grey-blue eyes were open but glassy and unfocused, his pupils blown wide with the unrestrained force of his desire.  His ravaged lips were parted to let out the most wonderful litany of desperate begging that Neil had ever heard; Mycroft's voice husky with overuse as the words "need", "fuck", and "more" tore their way out of his throat.  He groaned deeply, the sound resonating in the back of his throat as the blonde found that he simply didn't possess the willpower to hold out any longer. Fortunately Neil's work had left him as open as the younger student was likely to get.  He tested the give of the slightly-more-elastic ring of muscle surrounding him by giving his fingers three short, harsh thrusts before withdrawing them completely.  The noise that Mycroft made in protest was pained and desperate; blue eyes focusing on Neil with a wild abandon that sent surges of need pulsing low in Neil's abdomen.  

Positioning was over in a heartbeat.  Neil grabbed and threw one pale thigh up over his shoulder, and used his hand to grasp the opposite hip, pulling the smaller man towards him.  With Mycroft spread slightly, all he had to do was take his own erection in hand and guide it to the slick, somewhat loosened entrance.  The blonde bent his head, taking a moment to kiss and nip at the pale exposed flesh on the inside of Mycroft's thigh before lining his head up and pushing forward.  The searing heat of flesh surrounding him in addition to the almost impossible crush of pressure was enough to make the older man moan in a way he had never quite heard himself moan before.  Fuck, though... Mycroft was so _tight_.  And the flesh of his hip underneath Neil's hand was heated, reddened from their previous contact and starting to bruise and _fuck_... it was almost too much.  Centimeter by centimeter he pushed forward, ignoring Mycroft's pleas for more, more, more.  Once fully rooted in the other man stilled for a moment, letting them both adjust.  After a torturous few moments of Mycroft begging him to move, Neil relented.  Using the leverage of Mycroft's leg on his shoulder and his hand on the bruised expanse of his opposite hip, he held the younger man still as he withdrew almost completely, only the head of his cock remaining sheathed in the tight heat of Mycroft's body.  He held them both there for a moment, completely still, savoring the desperately needy whimpers that emanated from the man beneath him before pushing his cock fully into the crushing heat again.

Mycroft gasped and writhed at the renewed intrusion; obviously even somewhat prepared from Neil's previous ministrations being filled was still hard on his fragile, misused body.  Still, the way that the other student canted his hips made it more than obvious that the pain was absolutely no deterrent.  His elegant pale neck was arched back, long column of his throat bared as he continued to gasp.  Mycroft may have been begging, screaming, swearing, or all three at once; Neil wasn't sure and didn't really care.  The only coherent word he heard from the younger man was 'more' and he happily obliged, pushing himself into Mycroft with a fervor that eclipsed his rational thought.  The mixture of pain and pleasure that the younger man was so obviously experiencing, in addition to his frail physical and mental state drove Neil over the edge of reason.  The blonde retained just enough conscious thought to angle his hips in the precise way that he knew made Mycroft's eyes roll back in his head before he plummeted into some kind of carnal trance; growls and groans tearing their way free from him with every thrust as his fingers clawed at and mouth latched onto any pale expanse of skin it could find in a desperate bid to provide Mycroft the "more" he keep pleading for.

~~~~~~~~~~

An odd sort of quiet settled over the hospital room as Mycroft's warm smile faded into a distant, almost worried look that made itself at home on his aristocratic features.  Greg was acutely aware of Sherlock coming back out of his sulk, eyeing his contemplative older brother with no small amount of disdain combined with something strangely akin to hesitation.  Oh.  Wait... was that... nervous?  Did Sherlock look nervous?  He hadn't ever seen the expression cross the detective's face before, so it took Lestrade a moment to place it.  What could Sherlock have to be nervous about?

_Oh.  The statement.  Or rehab.  Or both._

Suddenly Greg felt like he was sharing Sherlock's somewhat distraught look.  So much rode on those two decisions.  The palpable tension in the room was almost crushing, and Greg expected a strange sort of storm to brew up above them, summoned by the overwhelming pressure brewing in their room.  Silence seemed to stretch on forever, with both Mycroft and Sherlock lost in their own thoughts.  Never had Greg so acutely felt the 'calm before the storm' before.  Sherlock looked poised to attack the instant a single syllable came from his brother, while Mycroft looked like he was steeling himself to do battle, which in a way he was.

In a turn of events that Greg couldn't have anticipated it was actually the younger Holmes that broke the silence first, stating quite firmly that Mycroft had made up his mind.  There was no question in his tone; in fact it seemed like the detective had only brought it up to goad his brother into talking about it.  Mycroft's answer caused Greg's face to light up as quickly as it caused Sherlock's face to fall.  The solution was brilliant.  As much as he'd wanted to go away with Mycroft, in the long run he knew that he simply wouldn't have been able to go knowing that Sherlock was primed and ready to tumble headfirst into a relapse.  This way, instead of having to turn down Mycroft's offer and look after Sherlock, he'd be able to effectively do both.  He could stay with the surly detective through the worst of the 'danger' times, and still go meet up with Mycroft.  Plus, it'd afford the elder Holmes an opportunity to be by himself and recoup a little bit before Greg arrived.

What Greg pointedly tried to ignore was the strange, twisting sensation in his chest when he thought about Mycroft using Neil's imprisonment as a bargaining chip against Sherlock.  Certainly it was the only way to get the younger man to agree to any treatment at all.  But Mycroft wouldn't really have followed through on the threat to have Gibson released from prison, would he?

The idea of Mycroft's offer being a bluff didn't even seem to cross Sherlock's mind, which chilled Greg even more.  The younger man sat there, eyes ablaze and jaw clenched tightly shut as he tried to burn holes in his brother using solely the force of his gaze.  When that failed, he turned his glare on Greg, who simply offered him an apologetic shrug.  Absinthe green eyes rolled once before he spat out the world's least agreeable sounding 'fine'.  Once Sherlock's agreement was spoken, the younger man retreated back off into his sulk, seeming twice as petulant as before.  Once it was obvious that his brother wasn't going to immediately have a fit (though Greg was certain that was coming at some point over the next week or so), Mycroft turned his attentions back to the DI.  His voice was silken and smooth, and Greg almost had to laugh at the effort that the man put in when he had to know, unequivocally, that Greg would agree.  Had already agreed, the minute the words were out of Mycroft's mouth.

"You know, you don't actually have to use that tone of voice with me to get your way," he teased, grinning at the politician.  "But it certainly doesn't hurt your chances either.  Of course I'll look after Sherlock for a week.  Especially if you think you can somehow stop him from trying to poison me out of boredom or spite or both."  The DI chuckled again, warm brown eyes meeting Mycroft's cobalt blue for the first genuinely affectionate, uncomplicated gaze they’d shared in what felt like far too long.  "And I'd be more than delighted to accompany you wherever you end up on your holiday, Mycroft.  In fact, I'm quite looking forward to it."

\-----------------------------------

Finally, finally, _finally_ Neil was going to give him more, evidently thinking that the rushed preparation had been enough and Mycroft was as open as he was going to be, which was pretty much true. His body wasn't going to give anymore than it already had, especially because if Neil didn't take him soon he was just going to wrap his legs around his waist and pull him in with sheer force if he had to. But Neil was withdrawing his fingers, making Mycroft whine from the loss of the lovely friction he had so been enjoying, and very quickly getting them both into position with one of Mycroft's thin legs positioned on his shoulder. Then, after a few moments of kisses on his thigh and with a hot hand on Mycroft's hip that was steadily darkening with bruises, Neil was lined up and slowly, slowly pushed in. God, he fucking _needed_ this. All of his whining and desperate pleas to Neil hadn't been just for show, past the almost pleasant burn of being stretched was the feeling of being filled, finally being full and entirely surrounded by Neil in the way that he'd been craving for weeks. Fuck it felt good. But Neil was just staying there, up to the hilt in Mycroft but not making any move beyond that.

"Neil, please, move, you have to move, I need you to move--" Mycroft continued to beg until the older man finally pulled back, keeping him in suspense as Mycroft whined for him, and then slammed back in. Mycroft couldn't help but gasp and writhe, his body, however willing, still not quite prepared for this. Too tight, everything was too tight, he felt too full and it _hurt_ but fuck did it feel so good, and he canted his hips up to meet Neil more fully, back arching off the bed as his head went back, the mixture of pain and pleasure making it hard for him to get out anything coherent beyond the word "more". That was all he wanted. More of Neil, more of this, more of anything and everything he could get at the moment. He didn't care that his body was trembling from exhaustion and barely holding itself up because Neil was angling his hips just so and--oh _fuck_. God, it seemed almost unfair that Neil knew him so well, could drive him this insane. Then again, Neil's hands and lips were everywhere on him, nail marks being scratched down his skin and bruises being sucked, and he knew that he just as easily drove the older man insane as well, driving him to the very edge of reason without meaning to. It was a frightening kind of chemistry, but a damn strong one.

He couldn't last like this. Not with Neil rolling into him at a feverish pace, continually hitting that same bullseye that had Mycroft clutching at the older man, scratching and gripping whatever he could reach in a desperate attempt to anchor himself. Neil hadn't even touched him since he entered Mycroft and yet he could already feel that pressure building in his abdomen, that coiling tightness as his body happily climbed a rather lofty incline. But he couldn't yet. Ever since the first time with Neil, it had just become customary for Neil to give him permission to come, to the point that Mycroft couldn't finish without the magic words coming from the older man's lips, no matter how much he wanted to or how overstimulated he was. "Neil," he said, the name coming out as little more than a breathless moan. "Neil--oh god--I'm close, I'm so close. Let me...please let me..."

~~~~~~~~

Mycroft had forgotten how lovely it was just to be in Greg's company, graced with his affectionate smiles and lovely words. Thank god they had actually hit upon a solution for handling Sherlock, because honestly, he needed a vacation and the DI did as well. Together was even better. No doubt it would be relaxing, lovely, and hopefully as easy as their repartee had been at the pub before this entire mess. It would no doubt take them awhile to get back to that place, but as long as they made it back there, it would be worth the time. Mycroft quickly texted Anthea back to update her, summarizing the plan for Sherlock and his vacation, and he was sure it took a concentrated effort for her to text back that she'd make travel plans for him and Greg without using any exclamation points. So, everything was falling back into place, even though Neil had done his best to knock everything into as many pieces as possible.

Neil... As much as Mycroft would have liked to say that his threat to release Neil from prison was just that, an empty threat, he knew it wasn't true. Sherlock would be an excuse to release the older man. A reason why, despite the awful things he'd done and the threat he still posed, Mycroft could let him go free again. Because like any other victim of abuse, he shared the same paranoia that he was just upsetting Neil by doing things that went against him, and that would make it all the worse when Neil managed to get out of prison. In truth, Mycroft was still afraid of the other man, still attached to him in the complicated way that had him second guessing himself and rethinking everything a dozen times. It would be easy, so easy to just release Neil and go back. Beg for forgiveness. Do everything he could to make it up to him, which would probably involve a lot of sadism and a lot of sex, and probably both at the same time. That'd be a lot easier than toughing it out and going into an uncertain relationship with Greg. But he couldn't. He had to do this, he had to put him away for Greg and Sherlock's sake. But still, the fear was there that he was making a monumental mistake.

But for now he smiled back at Greg, sincerely enthused for their upcoming trip. Come to think of it, he'd really be able to impress the DI with this. Considering the Holmes family background and his own earnings, Mycroft was accustomed to a certain type of lifestyle and certain luxuries in his life. He always stayed in the best hotels, had beautiful expensive suits, and had excellent care, while he suspected that Greg might not have ever seen the inside of a penthouse. Good, it was good that the DI would have a chance to be pampered while he was with Mycroft. The poor overworked man deserved it. "I'm looking forward to it as well, Gregory," Mycroft said amiably. "I'm sure it will be a pleasure for both of us." Sherlock nearly retched at this. "And while my brother may seem slightly antagonistic at the moment, I'm sure he understands that this is what's best for everyone involved. He'll come around, and if not, I have some very nice governmental work for him to become involved in. Plenty of paperwork. Now, perhaps a more important question; where would you like to go?"

\-------------------------

Aristocratic fingers had latched themselves onto Neil's arms, clutching with surprising strength at each buck of the older student's hips.  Mycroft's ravenous moans only served to fuel the building sense of pressure in his abdomen, and Neil canted his hips, matching the jagged tempo of Mycroft's gasps as if they were keeping time to the quickly-unraveling symphony of lust that dictated their every movement.  Mycroft, god... **Mycroft**.  Neil had never seen the other man so very undone before.  Mycroft writhed beautifully beneath him; the younger student's spine curved in an elegant arc as the muscles in his shoulders moved to brace himself every time Neil seated himself fully in his still crushingly tight body.  The older student continued to let his mouth trail over Mycroft's thigh, admiring the lurid purple marks that rose in the wake of his lips and tongue.  Marring and marking that ivory flesh as his was something Neil hadn't quite realized he missed, but as Mycroft kept producing the most desirous whimpers every time he bit into the sweet, yielding flesh the older blonde found himself wondering how he had managed to go for almost six whole weeks without fucking like **this**.

It wasn't as if he hadn't been with other people in that time; in fact he had been about the furthest from celibate that he could imagine.  But with other people it was... as sappy as it sounded, largely just sex.  Oh, there were power games, of course.  There were always power games in bed, at least with Neil.  Winning those was never any effort, and therefore hardly rewarding.  Mycroft, on the other hand, despite knowing he had little to no leverage in their relationship still managed to be a challenge.  Every little victory over the younger man's mind and body was a sweeter aphrodisiac than the greatest of triumphs over any other partner Neil had his way with. 

A series of pleas snapped Neil back from the lust-addled trance he had fallen into.  Mycroft was begging for Neil to let him go, and a momentary shock of confusion shot through the confused blonde before he realized that yes... oh yes.  That was right.  Mycroft needed his **permission** to reach climax.  Impossible as it seemed the thought made Neil even harder; his cock almost aching with fullness. It was a silly little game he had started early in their relationship, simply because Mycroft seemed to find the very first time Neil did it immensely pleasurable.  After that, it simply became a habit; with Mycroft holding off until Neil let him go over that edge.  After awhile, it seemed to have become an ingrained component of the younger man's psyche.  Here he was, reduced to a nearly mindless, taut, writhing bundle of sheer need; and he still couldn't get the release he needed without that extra little push from Neil.  The absolute control he had over the younger man, both mentally and physically, struck Neil and the slow spiral of pleasure that was coiling in him tightened and burned.  His own climax was nearing, and every desperate little entreaty from Mycroft pushed him that much closer.

Stopping his assault on the inside of Mycroft's thigh Neil drew his eyes up the length of the other man's body.  The frailty of his frame, pained edge to his cries, wanton moans and pleasured shudders combined to create a heady cocktail that had Neil groaning and thrusting that much harder.  God.  It was absolute perfection.  Neil could almost feel the hammering of his heartbeat all the way through his body down into his cock, every nerve ending and vein in him focused on the blindingly hot point of contact between his and Mycroft's bodies.  The almost painfully tight slide of Mycroft around him, the sensation of their sweat dampened skin rubbing together at every point of contact between them; the cacophony of sensation made Neil almost dizzy, almost as if his mind couldn't handle all the sensory input it was receiving.  The cries he wrung from Mycroft's long, exposed throat rang in his ears; each almost-frantic word spilling from his reddened lips took root at the base of Neil's length, and he could feel his balls drawing tight as the onslaught of pleasure rippled through him in the form of a tremendous shudder.  In response his hips thrust erratically, his orgasm just seconds away.  Summoning the very last dregs of his conscious control, he managed to growl out Mycroft's desperately needed permission as his pleasure quickly crested.

"God yes.  Show me what I do to you Mycroft.  Come for me, pet.  Come for me.  Let yourself go."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft was still troubled, that much was obvious.  Oh, he smiled and it actually touched his eyes, and Greg was so indescribably grateful for that.  There was still something that was different about him since his return, a haunted sort of look about his lovely storm-cloud blue eyes that hadn't been there before all the business with Neil.  In addition to the hollowness there was also a fair bit of anxiety, though Greg was both surprised and pleased with himself that he noticed.  The very slightest of downward turns hit the corners of his handsome mouth, the faint lines at the edges of his eyes just barely more pronounced than they would have been if Mycroft hadn't been worried.  Again, it was understandable.  He'd been through so very much, and the vacation wasn't just for show.  The physically and mentally exhausted politician really did need to take a break and let the events of the past two days fade, or at least as much as they would fade.  Some immensely jealous part of Greg realized that no matter what, Neil was always going to have some place in Mycroft's life, even if it was solely in the sheer number of painful memories that would continue to be stored in Mycroft's amazing mind.  It wasn't any different than his own musings on Janice, Lestrade supposed, but though Janice had been an awful person she couldn't hold a candle to the cruelty or level of abuse Neil had crafted for Mycroft.

An immense desire surged through Greg; something protective, concerned, and fiercely devoted that tangled up in his stomach.  It wasn't a bad feeling though; in fact it had him straightening his spine and pulling his shoulders back as if preparing for some sort of action.  In a way, Lestrade supposed that he was.  Because right then and there, for as long as the other man would have him and perhaps beyond that if they remained friends, Gregory Lestrade decided that no one was ever going to hurt Mycroft like that again.  No one would even come close.  He'd make damn sure of it.  The resolution burned in him, making his heart beat just a little faster and his skin feel just a bit flushed.  Nobody would treat Mycroft poorly, not even Mycroft himself.  Greg swore that no matter what else happened on their vacation he was going to devote the entirety of his time and attention to making sure Mycroft knew exactly how wonderful he was.  It seemed like not one person in the politician's life had ever bothered to do that before, at least sincerely or without a secondary motivation, and the thought made Greg's heart ache.  Mycroft deserved to know exactly how witty, charming, decent, and overall wonderful he was.  Lestrade wasn't going to stop until Mycroft could actually, physically **feel** in his bones how much Greg thought of him.

Lost in his own thoughts, Greg almost didn't notice when Mycroft turned back to him with a warmed expression.  A few niceties about their upcoming trip were made all the more entertaining by Sherlock's over the top reactions.  The detective was practically writhing in his bed, and had all but pulled the covers over his head to avoid listening to the DI and his brother make plans.  He gave a hearty laugh that only caused his side to twinge somewhat at Mycroft's threat of paperwork; though the comment was directed at Greg there was no doubt who it was actually meant for.  Sherlock seemed to deflate just a little, but his hackles were obviously still up.  If he were a cat his ears would have been flat against his head, spine arched, and tail bushy.  As it was the younger man was curled up into a little ball on his hospital bed, chin tucked to his chest, fingers laced together behind his neck.  Greg chortled again, but was distracted by Mycroft's sudden question.

"Wha- I mean... I'm sorry.  Wait.  What?"  Genuine confusion washed over him for a moment, until his exhausted brain caught up. Oh.  Mycroft was asking him where he wanted to go on vacation.  Well.  That was... entirely unexpected to say the least.  A bit flustered, more from embarrassment than anything else, he rubbed his hand along the back of his neck before answering.  "I - ah.  I don't know, really.  I had just assumed that I'd end up wherever you were  Because, ah..."  Shit.  He didn't really want to get sentimental in front of Sherlock, but that wasn't an option at the moment.  And he **had** decided, after all, that Mycroft was going to know at every turn exactly how wonderful Greg thought he was.  Swallowing a bit of pride, he continued.  "Well, anyplace with you is fantastic.  As long as you're there, anywhere you choose is good enough for me.  But um... as long as you're taking requests, perhaps somewhere warm?"

\------------------

Those magical words of permission were finally coming out of Neil's mouth, the very same mouth that had firmly been latched onto Mycroft's thigh not a minute ago, and Mycroft wasted no time in obeying, wrapping his own fingers around his long neglected arousal. One, two, three strokes and he was over the edge, eyes slipping shut as his hand continued, gently slowing to a halt as his body clenched even tighter around Neil, muscles spasming in time with his orgasm. God, that had to have been the best sex of his life and he was entirely exhausted by it, wrung-out and boneless, destroyed.

The things that Neil did to him...well, it wasn't as if Mycroft really had much to compare it to, but he doubted that anyone else could come even close to the intensity of feeling that came with being with the older man. Neil exhausted him emotionally, yes, but he also wrung every possible sensation out of all of the nerves in Mycroft's body, systematically shutting down the younger man's hyperactive brain by forcing him to focus on sensation instead. Even now, his brain was just humming quietly in the background, a pleasant buzz that didn't distract from the general pleasant haze over his body.

He blinked his eyes open again, intent on fixing them on Neil, but his vision was rapidly covering over with black dots, his head feeling heavier and heavier. If Neil climaxed, Mycroft was unaware of it because darkness took over for a minute, clearing again when Neil had pulled away from him. Oh god. He'd passed out again, his body exhausted from the sheer amount of physical exertion it had just been forced to endure. It didn't seem like he'd been passed out for very long this time, probably less than a minute, but the fact that this was the second time he'd fainted in the last 24 hours drove home the point that he was on the edge of a very serious collapse. If he didn't start taking care of himself soon, he was going to be in serious trouble. And judging from the expression on Neil's face, the older student wasn't very happy about it either.

Mycroft threw one of his arms over his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to regain his stolen breath and calm the dizziness lingering in his head. "God, Neil," he said, voice barely more than an exhale. "I've missed you."

~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, it was so good to hear Greg laugh again. Actually, genuinely laugh, like he had before all of these hideous events, like Mycroft had so enjoyed during their earlier time together. It was good to see that the DI was recovering a little from the attack and the ensuing events, because he was obviously just as affected as anyone else in the room. Well, perhaps less affected than Mycroft, who was still reeling from the injustices done to him by Neil, but affected nonetheless. Greg had had not one but two attempts on his life, had had to watch two of the people close to him get kidnapped and abused in separate ways, and had been forced to remain in a hospital bed, unable to help, while the situations went on around him. Not to mention the fact that one of said assassination attempts had left him with a still healing stab wound. It was a wonder the DI was still conscious and having a coherent conversation.

Though Greg was looking more and more tired as time went on, and Mycroft himself was starting to feel the effects of his sleep deprivation. True, he had been able to get something resembling rest while he was passed out under the influence of the painkillers, but that only paid off a tiny bit of the crushing amount of sleep debt he lived with on a daily basis. He hadn't allowed himself to sleep at all before and very little during the time he was kidnapped--painkiller incident aside--and it had left him more than a little worse for the wear. As much as he wanted to stay awake and coordinate with Anthea, the brunette wouldn't let him work anyway and answered any of his inquiring texts with: **Enjoy your time with Greg and Sherlock.**

As a last correspondence, he sent a request to her for a warm vacation spot and made sure she knew all the details of the vacation plan so she could start planning. His last chore done, he set his mobile down again and smiled warmly, if tiredly at Greg. "I've already sent in a request to Anthea for somewhere warm, I'm sure she'll be able to find something accommodating. And, well...I am also of the sentiment that anywhere with you would be an extremely pleasant vacation." He pointedly ignored his brother as Sherlock nearly had a fit, his hands going up to cover his ears so he wouldn't have to listen to any of this. He knew, _knew_ that he was never going to hear the end of this later, his younger brother no doubt throwing a childish tantrum at the very thought of Mycroft dating anyone, let alone Greg Lestrade. For the moment, however, the younger man stayed blessedly silent, no doubt knowing that Mycroft was not in the mood to entertain any of his childish antics. Thank god.

"So, as it stands, Anthea is working out the details for my vacation, and it appears that everyone is safe for the time being. I believe it is in your best interest, as well as my own and possibly my brother's as well--" a pointed look to his brother's bed that Sherlock thoroughly ignored "--if we all get some rest."

\---------------------------------------

Mycroft's body started to pulse and contract around Neil in time with the hasty strokes of the younger man's hand on his own erection.  The sensation only lasted a moment, because almost without warning Mycroft was constricting around him; the smaller man breathlessly gasping as his too-thin, highly abused frame jumped and spasmed beneath Neil.  That frail body seemed to transition fluidly from completely taut and twitching to languidly boneless in a matter of moments.  Something about the dazed, weak tone of his voice as moaned his way through what appeared to be a rather intense climax pulled Neil even closer to the edge.

Green eyes cast themselves downward as Neil took a moment at the precipice of his physical high to admire his work.  Mycroft was completely and utterly spent.  His normally sharp blue eyes were distant and unfocused, his lips red and ravaged, the lean column of his neck exposed in a gesture of total submission, that normally pristine pale skin starting to mottle with bruises in the most delicious of ways.  The ever present tension had drained from his face; eyes fluttering above parted lips; all the younger man's formerly all-consuming stress washed away by the blissful haze.  There was nothing more pleasurable to Neil than knowing that he could shut down that brilliant mind completely.  Seeing Mycroft reduced to a wanton, writhing mess fed the burning thread that ran taut from his navel to the very base of his groin.  With a guttural groan, Neil relinquished the remaining shreds of control he had on his libido.  A few final, quickened thrusts into the crushing heat of Mycroft's body had him toppling over the edge as well.  Neil could feel his balls tighten and his hips stutter involuntarily as everything was washed away in a wave of white; his awareness reduced to the feel of his cock twitching as the aftershocks of Mycroft's orgasm worked him through his completion.

Panting and utterly spent, Neil managed to pull himself back to reality first.  Well, that much was unsurprising.  Mycroft had a lot less to give and had taken a whole lot more than the older student's body had.  Though something was odd about the complete and total silence that had fallen over his partner.  The orgasm had been intense, leaving him slack and pliant after the glorious aftershocks had wrung him out. Still, there was a lack of 'togetherness' about the younger man that Neil found oddly unnerving.  His stormy blue eyes had drifted closed at some point, when normally post-coital Mycroft would be starved for eye contact.  The younger student's breathing was also off; shallow and labored in a way that wasn't quite right.  It took Neil just a few seconds to realize that his partner was either asleep or unconscious.  A self-satisfied grin settled on his face as he held still, simply looking down at the perfectly ravaged young man beneath him.  Well, there weren't too many people that could say they'd fucked their partners into unconsciousness.  The sheer power that he felt made his already-softening shaft give an interested twitch.  This was definitely something that he was going to have to try and accomplish again, though it would be more difficult once Mycroft started recovering from his self-imposed starvation.

Neil let his expression drift into a sort of disapproving concern as he felt the younger man beneath him shift.  His breathing normalized some, and Neil could see the slight twitches of Mycroft's eyes behind his pale, delicate eyelids.  Withdrawing as slowly as he could, he raked his eyes across Mycroft one more time, drinking in the sight of him before allowing the mask of disapproving yet concerned boyfriend to fall into place as blue grey eyes fluttered open, only to be immediately covered by the younger man's arm as he whispered his confession about missing the older student.

"I missed you too, Mycroft.  Now look at me, beautiful."  The older student kept his voice firm and commanding, using one of his hands to grasp Mycroft's wrist and pull his arm away from his eyes.  "You are going to eat something.  And then you are going to sleep.  And no matter what else happens, from this point forward, you are going to eat something and keep it down at least once a day."

  
"God," he mused, eyes thoughtful as he gazed down on the fragile shell of his former self Mycroft had become.  "You're an absolute wreck.  What would you do without me?"  When the slightest thread of fear appeared in those stormy blue eyes, the older student leaned down and stole a kiss from his partner's breathless lips.  "Don't worry.  You're not ever going to have to find out.  You're mine, Mycroft.  Forever."

~~~~~~~~~~

Greg's brow creased with worry as Mycroft gave him a tired, washed out smile.  The poor man looked beyond exhausted.  Which was entirely unsurprising, but caused the DI to have a flutter of concern in his chest all the same.  Fortunately, those aristocratic fingers had stopped tapping away at his mobile.  Lestrade flushed with satisfaction when he saw Mycroft set the damned device down.  Good.  Anthea must have cut him off, then.  Wonderful woman that she was, there was no doubt in Greg's mind that the petite PA was making sure that work related matters stayed well away from her enervated boss.

Lestrade noticed the effects of exhaustion creeping up on him as well.  Once aware of his own state, he noted his slow blinks and half-contained yawns with a bit of a smile.  Well, weren't they just the perfect pair; both worn thin but not allowing themselves the luxury of sleep until every last detail had been taken care of.  Fortunately, it seemed that the last of the uncertainty had faded; everything really and truly did seem to be settling into place.  Greg allowed himself a cocky, triumphant grin.  Neil might have tried his damnedest to keep Mycroft away from him, but the entire plan seemed to have backfired.  Certainly, there were things about the current situation that the DI could do without; Mycroft's injuries and captivity, Sherlock's beatings and exposure to drugs, even his own stabbing.  But for all that interference, all the efforts and plots and schemes on Gibson's part, here Greg was, planning to go on holiday with Mycroft Holmes.  It was a satisfying feeling, really.  There was something about the resiliency of their tentative bond that made the DI's chest flood with warmth.  Yes, they had been through a lot.  And yes, there had been some significant emotional and physical damage done along the way.  Despite what they had both been through, it looked like they were still going to be able to recover.  Together.  They were going to recover and rebuild **together**.  

He may have been sitting in a hospital bed with a knife wound to his spine and a lacerated spleen, but gazing into the warm slate blue of Mycroft's eyes Greg thought that perhaps he felt better than he had in years.  After fighting back another yawn as Mycroft drew his attention back to the sheer level of exhaustion currently being experienced by everyone in the room, the DI gave him a weary smile.   _Safe.  Everyone is safe._  The words seemed to wash over him like a wave, taking all the tension and stress that had built up in his body with it when it ebbed.  Greg stifled another yawn and fixed his warm brown eyes on Mycroft.

"Agreed.  Rest sounds positively wonderful.  I'm beyond knackered, and you look and sound about as tired as I do.  I'll get some rest if you do.  Just..." His voice trailed off for a moment a flicker of concern crossing his features.  "If you wake up before me, get me up too ok?  If you're going away in a few days I don't want to miss any time with you."  Sherlock made positively inhuman sound at that remark, and Greg responded with a chuckle. "Plus, if you get me up we can work together to drive Sherlock out of his mind.  Wear him down a bit so he's easier for me to manage during my week's stay with him, yeah?"


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft attempts to leave both Neil and Uni for a position in Government, Lestrade has adventures in Holmes-sitting, and our favorite couple retreat somewhere warm to reconnect.
> 
> Warnings: Eating disorders, emotionally and physically abusive relationship, sadism, Uni-flashbacks, introspection, , "emotional torture porn", and... pre-fluff?!?!?!

It had been rolling around in his head for months. Just a thought, an idea for the time being. An offer. Mycroft had a chance, a choice, a heavy decision to make; whether to stay with Neil, and all of his sadistic ways, or leave him to work for the government. The offer had been made only a few weeks ago, discreetly, of course, when a black town car rolled up to him and a man in a suit inside asked him if he would take a ride to discuss a job offer. He'd shown credentials, of course, because Mycroft knew better than to trust strange men in cars, and once they were both safely away from prying eyes, the opportunity had been laid out in plain terms. Mycroft would be offered a rather lofty position, considering his young age, with an opportunity for advancement in the future. His job would be entirely confidential, and he could continue on in his current life as if nothing had changed. Of course, they politely requested that he leave Uni so that he had the time for a full-time job, but everything else could stay the same if he wished. Family, friends--as if there were any--and boyfriend. And there was the problem.

Because Neil would never allow it. Never even let him consider it in the first place. It wouldn't just be a flat 'no', either; no, if he thought for one second that Mycroft was in danger of trying to leave him-- _trying_ , yet again--he would use every weapon in his arsenal to turn Mycroft into a weeping, needy mess that relied entirely on him and wouldn't even think about leaving because Neil was all he needed and all he could ever hope to have. It would be all too easy for the older student to manipulate him back into his clutches, and Mycroft had a feeling that an opportunity to escape like this would never come again. Nearly two years, now. He'd been with Neil for almost two years, and in that time he'd almost entirely changed as a person, not to mention the eating disorder that still affected him in waves, getting worse whenever things with Neil did, and abating once again when things were better. Which was almost never, now. Neil wouldn't allow him to starve himself to the point he'd been at when he first tried to leave Neil; no, no, after he moved in with Neil, his life had gotten worse.

Neil had a stranglehold on his entire life, controlling who he saw, when, what he did, when he ate, when he slept, when they had sex, even if Mycroft was emotionally wrecked and the farthest away from aroused he could ever get. Especially if Mycroft was emotionally wrecked. Neil had revealed his true face slowly, over time, always stopping before he showed enough to make Mycroft run before it was too late and he was too deep in to get out. No, without help, Mycroft would never be able to get away from Neil. They would just continue in their painful little cycle until--until what? What was Neil really looking to get out of this? He certainly didn't seem like he would ever let Mycroft go, but what did that mean? Right now it was just a serious relationship--not monogamous if Mycroft was being honest with himself, because while the incidents of Neil stepping out had seemed to significantly decrease since Mycroft came back the first time, he knew it still happened occasionally--but that was for the time being. How far would Neil take his control? Was a proposal waiting around the corner? Finally meeting the parents, planning a wedding that would break Mycroft into pieces because he would be legally bound to the older man?

No, it seemed so unlikely for Neil to do something so domestic. At the same time, it was another level of control. A higher one than ever before. Neil would have even more control over Mycroft's life than he did now, when they were just living together, and no one would even question it. He'd have control over Mycroft's finances, over how often he saw his family, over how many times he checked up on Sherlock. They would be legally bound together, forever, and Mycroft could never be forced to testify against Neil about his burgeoning taste for the less than legal side of business. He'd be nothing more than a trophy husband, the prodigy on the mob boss's arm. He'd be an accomplice, even. Which was a damn good reason to leave if he'd ever heard one.

At the same time, there was that creeping fear, that doubt. Without Neil, he'd have nothing. He'd be forced to start entirely over, hope beyond hope that someone would look past his icy shell and care for him. But no, he believed Neil on that. No one else could love him, could put up with him and his emotionally stunted ways. If he left Neil, he would really, truly be alone. And that thought was understandably terrifying. There was no guarantee that he'd even be able to survive without the other man; for all of his numerous faults, Neil had restored him to full health after the first disastrous appearance of his eating disorder, and had managed to keep him healthy for the most part after that point. Left to swim in a sea of his own self-doubt and insecurities, Mycroft would choose the easy way out and drown in the high tide of his disorder once again, because he wouldn't have his usual comfort, Neil, to turn to instead. And leaving Neil not only meant giving up the one surefire way to quiet his tumultuous mind, but also losing the affection and caring that the older man bestowed upon him to keep him with him. Because when Neil was good, he was _wonderful_. He could be the sweetest, most considerate, caring, and affectionate boyfriend in the world. His fangs were sugarcoated so Mycroft wouldn't feel the sting of venom until the last minute.

And this was why his mind had been churning since the offer was made, wavering in between a decision on either side. It was so hard to make the decision because after a particularly bad fight with Neil, he'd choose to leave, and then the older man would shower him with affection and he'd choose to stay. And there was no way he could get some time away from Neil, just a little while to clear his head and think without his influence. Neil was in nearly every second of his day; he ate, drank, and breathed Neil. It was made worse by the fact that Neil had picked up on the fact that something was wrong, though he didn't know what. The older man had been breathing down his neck at every turn, quick to criticize every misstep and question Mycroft's motivations in the simplest things. Whenever he tried to pick at the truth, though, fingers prying at the barely held together shards of Mycroft's mind, Mycroft remained calm, even, his oceanic eyes a calm sea as he told Neil that there was nothing wrong. The older man wouldn't know, even if Mycroft turned down the offer. Neil could never know about this, if Mycroft chose to stay. Because the fact that he had even dared to consider leaving Neil would be enough of an excuse to rain the fires of hell down on his head.

In the end, Neil actually made the decision for him, in his own way. One morning Mycroft woke up alone in a cold bed--not an unusual occurrence; Neil often left early for 'business meetings' as he called them--to find a note on the nightstand next to the bed that said: **Be back in a few hours, don't leave the flat while I'm gone. Eat something, you're looking a little thin. -N**

Something tired, brittle, and barely restrained in Mycroft snapped, like an old elastic stretched to its very breaking point. When had he become a prisoner in what was supposed to be his flat? When had his every move become dictated by someone who he couldn't even trust on their word anymore? Neil lied, Neil always lied, and yet Mycroft continued to buy into his falsehoods and believe him. Trust him. And he was never surprised when Neil broke that trust, either. That was sad, wasn't it? Just crushingly sad?

Which was why he found himself rapidly packing up the essentials in the flat, a quick emergency bag thrown together before Neil came home. He wanted to make a clean break, leave without Neil even realizing he was gone at first, and that meant finishing this quickly before the other man came home. He'd leave nonessentials behind, take what was necessary, and leave without a goodbye or even a note. Neil could formulate as many theories as he liked, it wouldn't help him find Mycroft in the end. Because earlier that very day, Mycroft had met the shady government man again and accepted his offer, on one condition; "You must ensure that Neil Gibson can never find me again."

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The week away from everything, including Greg, had been exactly what Mycroft needed. After seven days by himself in a lovely little villa in Greece--nothing too elaborate, a modest little place that Anthea had secured for him--he felt much better than he had in a long time. Sure, he was a little on the thinner side because as soon as it could, his eating disorder had reared its ugly head, but the doctor that Anthea had scheduled to check up on him regularly had quickly nipped that in the bud. Overall, he was slowly recovering physically, his arm still bound up in its sling--he'd been assured that he'd be in it for at least three months, though he had rapidly adjusted to working around it, getting dressed, showering, taking care of himself--his body back at a healthy weight, and, of course, not in any immediate danger of self-harm.

His psyche was an entirely different story, a slowly scabbing over wound that could easily be torn afresh at the slightest provocation. Some days everything would crash into him in one great tidal wave and he'd struggle to break through to the surface and breathe again, both literally and figuratively. Crying was not uncommon, stealing his breath and reducing him to gasping for air as he tried to fight the multitude of feelings vying for his attention at the same time. Those were the days when he was much more likely to relapse, empty his stomach in an effort to empty his head. But he was slowly, ever so carefully gluing back together his shattered heart, using a combination of anger and hope as his paste. There were so many emotions to sort through, and for someone who had been denying and hiding them away for years, it was overwhelming.

Because, truly, he had years worth of files to sort through, dusty boxes in the storage room of his mind that he had to flip through and add things to, painfully categorizing every instance of abuse from Neil and the unfortunate consequences that had arisen as a result. It was a process of discovering himself, of seeing exactly where the cracks and flaws in his psyche had come from, and trying to fix them as best he could. The more sorting that he did, the more he realized that Neil hadn't just hurt him, he'd _ruined_ him. The blonde had taken him and twisted him into something more suited to his purposes, something broken and weak and vulnerable that had had to hide behind an icy shell as a last means of protection. Neil wasn't to blame for every one of Mycroft's flaws, of course, but the number that he was responsible for was astounding. It was becoming more and more apparent to Mycroft that leaving Neil was the best decision he ever made, and depending on the day he either felt relieved bordering on elated at the thought that he had managed to escape, or completely, utterly destroyed at the thought that he had allowed himself to be hurt that badly for that long.

But he was free now, whether he liked it or not. And the week was up, meaning that Greg was on a flight to join him, and the very thought had Mycroft bustling around the villa, tidying up and making sure everything was in its proper place. He had a spare room, separate from his, that Greg would be staying in--because of course he was a gentleman and wasn't going to pressure Greg into anything, especially so soon after such a messy beginning to their relationship--so he had to make sure the bed was made properly, the room was clean, and everything was ready. Finally he had nothing to do but anxiously pace around his living room, waiting for Greg to arrive in the black car he'd sent for him. He would've gone personally, but the last minute touches had to be made and it was better that he let Greg drink in his fill of the scenery on his way there. He was sure it would be strange for the DI to see him on vacation, because he was dressed the most casually he ever managed aside from when he slept. A pair of impeccably tailored dress pants and a well-cut white button-down with the collar open that emphasized his slightly leaner current figure, with what could best be described as loafers on his feet. No tie, no waistcoat, no jacket, no watch. His sleeves were even rolled up (heaven forbid!) and he hoped Greg wouldn't faint from the sheer amount of skin that he was showing compared to his normal attire.

There wasn't much time to contemplate it because finally, _finally_ there was a knock on the door, and Mycroft went to open it, prepared with a smile that he couldn't seem to keep off his features anyway. "Good afternoon, Gregory," he said smoothly, and then politely; "Did you have a good flight?"

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For the past several weeks, Mycroft had been acting strange. Well, stranger than usual. Thanks to the immensely restrictive control that Neil had over his life, the younger man had gotten a bit odder in his own personal habits; the slightest of routines becoming rigid and structured events, any opportunity that Neil allowed him to express an opinion was pounced on with unrestrained enthusiasm. The blonde supposed that it was basic psychology; Mycroft was desperately grasping at the small amounts of control Neil allowed him to have about his life and environment to give himself the illusion of independence. That tendency had faded over the last few weeks. Instead of Mycroft expressing any opinion about their meals or entertainment or even his own outfits when asked, he seemed more than happy to defer completely to Neil and remain lost in his own thoughts. It was troubling. Additionally, the younger man had become jumpy in a way that he hadn't ever been before. He startled easily whenever Neil stirred him from whatever introspective reflections he continually got lost in. The most telling sign of something changing was that Mycroft had started to lose interest in his schoolwork. Instead of being the amazing little overachiever that he was (something that Neil didn't want to nor seemed to be able to discourage him from), the normally dedicated student had taken to doing the minimum amount of work required to keep up his exceptionally high marks. He spent less and less time studying, the time instead replaced with silent rumination on whatever idea it was that seemed to be consuming him.

Mycroft had become withdrawn, quiet, and melancholy. These were emotional reactions and states that Neil had come to expect from the younger man in certain measures, but they were being displayed in new and troublesome ways. Previously those emotions were just the way that he reacted to the outside world, the world that didn't revolve around Neil. Now he was responding to Neil himself in exactly the same way; regarding his partner cautiously, carefully hiding his thoughts and intentions from the older man while desperately trying to appear as if he wasn't. Mycroft also displayed a worrying amount of nervousness. A certain level of high-strung worry was normal for the younger man, especially if Neil had recently expressed his displeasure with him. This new, odd mood Mycroft was entertaining was also apprehensive, but carried a different air about it. Instead of seeking out Neil's approval and reassurance, the younger man seemed to be intentionally obfuscating his disquiet. In fact, Mycroft appeared to be going out of his way to appear as if everything was normal. But when the younger man didn't know he was being watched he chewed his lip, lacing his fingers together as his stormy blue eyes drifted off to some unfixed, distant point. The younger man was obviously lost in thought, but whenever Neil brought up his level of distraction Mycroft denied it, and had even gone so far as to resort to physical distraction to keep the older man's attention off his changing personality.

It was like the nearly insufferable little genius was cultivating some sort of secret; either entertaining some idea or god forbid, relationship that allowed him to have scraps of an existence that didn't come directly from Neil. The thought made the older blonde bitter and irrationally angry. There shouldn't be any part of Mycroft's life that he didn't have direct control over. He ached to tear away at this burgeoning, fragile confidence; tearing away at every piece of Mycroft's psyche until nothing but weeping, bloody tatters remained. Finally the need was too great, and Neil finally decided to do something about the whole situation. Something was causing Mycroft to squirm in the elegant bonds that his possessive boyfriend had set about him, and it was time for the older man to snap his leash tight again. Though it was going to be difficult to punish Mycroft for something as amorphous as being in a strange mood, which was why Neil left him one morning with instructions that would be sure to rankle the younger man. Leaning against the front of the building, slowly smoking his third cigarette in the past hour, he kept an emerald eye on the door of their building. Sooner or later that sneaky little red-haired bastard would emerge, taking off to do or see whatever it was that had him acting so strangely. That would present the perfect opportunity for Neil to strike, catching him in the act and tearing down whatever plans the younger student had been making on the side while systematically putting the man back in his place. His place, which he sorely needed to be reminded of, was firmly under Neil's thumb and silent at his side.

Emerald eyes regarded his watch with a baleful glare as he checked it for what felt like the millionth time that afternoon. Neil knew that Mycroft had slunk out that very morning, getting into some obscenely large and expensive black sedan. He didn't stay for long though; in fact according to the 'friend' that Neil had watching their building the car only took a single trip around the block before dropping Mycroft off back in front of their building. It was obviously a planning meeting, as it was far too short for anything else. The thought made Neil's blood boil. The idea of his posh little boyfriend scheming behind his back caused his fingers to coil into involuntary fists. What the **fuck** did Mycroft think he was doing? The car looked like something that the Holmes estate would send but Mycroft knew that anything, even family visits, had to be cleared with Neil first. Full of barely contained fury, Neil returned to their building to stalk back and forth in front of the entrance with all the restlessness of a caged beast. He desperately wanted to catch Mycroft in the act of stepping out when he had been specifically ordered not to; Neil actually witnessing the younger man's disobedience would allow him to unleash the full force of his anger without having to worry about defending himself from Mycroft's accusations of unfairness.

Impatience feeding his anger, he found himself unable to wait any longer. Grinding out his discarded cigarette underneath one expensively shod heel, Neil tore through the hallway leading up to their shared flat. Upon his arrival, he opened the door so hard that it slammed against the wall with a significant crash. Unsatisfied with the noise, the blonde slammed it shut again before advancing quickly towards the bedroom. As he reached the door, he noted that the room was a wreck; drawers open and things strewn across the bed. Mycroft was in the closet, taking out a few of his favorite suits and laying them on the bed. He had frozen in the middle of the act; wide blue eyes regarding Neil with a look of outright surprise tinged with horror. Every muscle in Neil's body tightened with rage, and he entered the room while being certain to stay between Mycroft and the door, effectively trapping the younger man.

"What the **fuck** do you think you're doing," he snarled as soon as he was in position, voice low and dangerous as his verdant eyes narrowed in pure fury. With a sneer, he noted the case Mycroft appeared to be in the middle of packing. "What's this? Going somewhere without me, _**sweetheart**_?"

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Greg's week with Sherlock turned out to not only be just as troublesome as the DI assumed it would be, but actually managed to surpass his wildest expectations. The list of trials the detective put him through was seemingly never ending. Being suspended, Lestrade didn't have access to the cold cases that he normally would have used to distract the exceptionally surly young man. After he spent the first two days hopelessly searching Sherlock's website to see if any interesting private cases had come in, Lestrade had completely given up on the idea of any outside forces distracting the younger man from his personal crusade to drive the DI insane.

Sherlock insisted that because he didn't have any work, the only thing that would keep him stimulated enough to keep from relapsing was to immerse himself in various experiments. Most of these experiments seemed to revolve around Greg, and testing his slowly recovering stamina or quickly ebbing patience. Everything had started out harmlessly enough; Sherlock obtaining several different bacterial cultures and painstakingly tracking growth rates based on environmental factors. Sure, it meant that every single surface in the already cluttered flat was covered with petri dishes, but at least it seemed to keep Sherlock sufficiently distracted. Hell, after the first night of almost non-stop arguing and the detective attempting to sneak out of the flat while Greg slept on the couch (which the DI thought he tried just to see if he could do it, not because he was actually trying anything) they seemed to settle into a reasonable routine. Greg watched telly and endured (and occasional enjoyed) Sherlock's running commentary while the younger man sat at the kitchen table, glued to either his laptop, his microscope, or his notebook. About every four hours or so, he'd take a break to shower Lestrade with insults, though they mostly seemed to be meant to test him, not actually hurt him in any way. All in all, those first few days were much better than Greg had expected them to be, which should have sent up red flags. Instead, Greg tried to enjoy the relative downtime, focusing on relaxing or working through his PT exercises for his wounded abdomen.

It should have tipped him off when Sherlock started taking an interest in his eating habits on the second day. But Greg was still wrung out from his ongoing recovery, and thoroughly distracted by his upcoming vacation with Mycroft. By the third day Sherlock had taken to helping prepare their meals, which largely consisted of moving takeaway from containers to plates. If Greg had been in his right mind, he would have run screaming. Instead he happily took whatever Sherlock offered him, the younger man happily bringing him food and drink as he rested on the couch. The occasional sniping comment about Greg's weight, appearance, and general level of intelligence kept the DI from noticing Sherlock's other out of character behaviors, and he went to sleep that second night feeling as if the rest of the week would be pleasant. And if not pleasant, at least it would be tolerable.

At the beginning of the fourth day, when the nausea and vomiting set in, it became painfully obvious that Greg couldn't have been more wrong. How could he have been so blind? Of course there was an ulterior motive to the younger man's perceived kindness that had nothing to do with making Greg feel welcome. Sherlock had poisoned his food, and seemed to be taking great delight in taking notes on Lestrade's various reactions. That whole day the raven haired detective stood outside the bathroom door, asking a series of questions about his symptoms as if he expected any answers from Greg other than the occasional good cussing he managed to get in between rounds of sickness. Fortunately, the symptoms had largely passed by the next day, though his side positively throbbed every time he so much as breathed. Sherlock looked smugly satisfied for the next full day, and despite the physical discomfort he was in Greg took to preparing all his own meals, taking great care to thoroughly wash the dishes before and after he used them. It was the least he had coming after all. A 24 hour bug was probably getting off lightly when it came to retaliation for courting Sherlock’s older brother.

The day Sherlock let him physically recover was perhaps the most pleasant of his stay, though the younger man busied himself with 'reading' Greg and providing commentary at every available opportunity. It didn't help that the majority of the DI's thoughts revolved around the elder Holmes brother, which seemed to irritate the younger to no end. During that 24 hour period Greg received no fewer than three full psychological workups, each of which detailed how completely unfit he was to be Mycroft's partner, the specifics of his failed marriage, and the various reasons that Greg was likely to die both young and alone. Most of the comments rolled off Greg's psyche; hearing an onslaught of his character flaws was something he'd built up an impressive resistance to during the final years of his marriage. He managed to only severely snap at Sherlock twice, and even during those lapses of temper he managed to keep his responses largely impersonal. In fact, it became almost a bit of a game between them, with Sherlock detailing how poor of a fit he was for Mycroft and Greg responding with recitations of Sherlock's original assessment of their potential relationship while in the hospital. Each was met with a denial, of course; Sherlock brimming with insistence that he only spoke those words because it was what Mycroft needed to hear at the moment. Finally, when it became obvious that they had reached an impasse in which neither man was going to make progress the stinging comments tapered off, slowly returning back to the detective's usual amount of sniping.

The last of their days together passed in a blur, as Sherlock seemed to content himself with studying the effects of sleep deprivation on the already beleaguered DI. He replaced the decaf tea with caffeinated tea, snuck over the counter stimulants into his food, took to making terrible noises at all hours of the night, and even went so far as to start throwing things at Greg whenever he started to nod off. He did it all under the auspices of needing a 'sounding board', though both men knew that was completely untrue. Tired and cranky, Greg snapped a few more times, but still managed to remain largely impersonal in his responses to Sherlock's constant needling comments. The only time that Lestrade got any significant sleep at all was when Sherlock became too absorbed in his ongoing, non-Greg related experiments to bother with tormenting him. Even with those periods of respite, the DI didn't manage to get a consecutive period of sleep that lasted for more than an hour and a half. Finally the week was over and he watched with an enormous amount of relief as the familiar black sedan pulled up in front of Sherlock's flat.

The younger man didn't even acknowledge Greg's departure beyond an inscrutable look that Sherlock fixed him with as he said his goodbyes. As Lestrade hit the threshold of the front door he swore he heard a baritone grumble from behind him that sounded suspiciously like "if you hurt my brother, no one will ever find your body", though when Greg turned around and asked for clarifications Sherlock threw him a bitter look and informed him that he was merely talking to himself about how relieved he was that the DI would no longer be bringing down the general level of intelligence in the apartment.

Fortunately, Greg was far too worn out to worry about his upcoming vacation with Mycroft anymore. He didn't have the energy to put into the endless self-depreciation, second guessing, and wary analysis that he'd normally have approached the situation with. In the silence of the car, ruminating on his past week as they drove to Mycroft's private hangar, it occurred to the DI that bearing the brunt of Sherlock's attention had actually saved him from making a real mess of things in his mind. Greg smiled wryly, even chuckling a bit to himself as he realized that Sherlock had been just as good for him as he had been for the younger man. The detective kept Lestrade too exhausted and distracted to get lost in his own head, and that was very likely one of Sherlock's intentions. Talk about being cruel, or at least exhaustively annoying, to be kind. Once aboard the startlingly luxurious jet, Greg's flight out to Greece was the first sleep he had gotten in over 48 hours.

The stewardess woke him about half an hour before landing, which gave him just enough time to clean himself up in a full washroom that was at least the size of the one in his flat. On an airplane. It made Greg's head spin as he flushed with both nervousness and giddiness. This was a lifestyle he was entirely unaccustomed to, but if everything was going to be as comfortable as the actual bed that he slept in while in flight he figured that appreciation for luxury would overtake his awkwardness around it in no time. Hell, there was even a shower in the washroom, which Greg gladly took advantage of. He dressed himself in a simple pair of jeans and a plain grey t-shirt. Greg's only concession to fashion at all was the pair of black leather boots he sported; a leftover from his punk days that he never really gave up in his adulthood. He simply felt more comfortable in a sturdy pair of boots than he ever would in trainers. Landing came soon after he returned to his seat, and he was ushered out of the plane into a black car identical to the one that had picked him up in London. He laughed at the dour look he received from the chauffeur when he asked what sort of sorcerous powers the Holmes family possessed that allowed them to duplicate cars at will before sliding silently into the all-too-familiar backseat.

Lestrade supposed that he should have been paying more attention to the scenery on the drive out, but thoughts of Mycroft kept him completely distracted. They hadn't exchanged more than a handful of texts while the politician had been away, and that was mostly just to reassure Mycroft that his brother's sobriety was intact. Greg had spared the other man the details of his ordeal, not wanting to worry Mycroft or distract him from what certainly must be a difficult recovery. Anthea had texted the DI a few times as well, mostly to give him incredibly brief updates on the politician's health. Greg suspected that was simply so he wasn't going into their reunion blind; a little bit of basic information was all she was willing to spare, though. Clever girl. She very likely knew that by withholding information about Mycroft from Greg the DI would actually have to press the man into talking to get any detailed insight as to his mental state.

So it was with only the vaguest of ideas on what to expect that he paced up the walkway, shifting nervously as he knocked at the door. It was answered almost immediately by Mycroft himself, and Greg stood in stunned silence as he took in the absolutely gorgeous sight of Mycroft Holmes in what he supposed passed for the man's version of casual. Crisp, creased dress trousers were set off perfectly by a plain white button down. Impossibly, Mycroft managed to make the simplest of outfits exotic; the lack of tie and rolled up shirtsleeves immediately throwing Greg back to the awed mindset he had at the pub. Smoothly, Mycroft was asking about his flight, though Greg had a hard time making out the precise words as his eyes drank in the pale length of throat and complimentary flash of ivory wrist as the man welcomed him in.

"Ah. Yes. Hi," he managed to stutter out, the all too familiar blush creeping back onto his cheeks as he took in the exposed skin at the hollow of Mycroft's throat. The politician's smile was both genuine and radiant, and Greg couldn't help but return the gesture as he stepped into the foyer as Mycroft gestured him in. Shaking himself slightly, he managed to regain his ability to speak somewhat coherently. "The flight was unbelievable, really. I've never slept so well in my entire life, let alone on a bloody airplane." Dumbstruck by Mycroft's answering smile, he simply locked eyes with the politician for a moment, rich brown connecting with beautiful blue-grey. "Hell, Mycroft," he murmured affectionately, gracing the man with a broad, appreciative grin. "It's fantastic to see you. You look great."

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Oh Jesus fucking Christ. Neil looked beyond furious, teetering somewhere on the edge between rage and insanity. Mycroft had only seen him this angry a few times, and each time had ended so badly that he had been making up to the older man for days, sometimes even weeks. Any chance Mycroft had had of making his escape quietly was completely gone, washed away by the sheer force of Neil's anger. He'd known, of course, that Neil realized something was wrong; no matter how hard he tried to hide it, Neil always knew him the best, inside and out. He could pick on the subtle signs, the little inconsistencies in Mycroft's behavior that Mycroft couldn't even pick out himself. It was terrifying, in a way. To have someone who knew him this intimately and only used that knowledge to exert more influence, more control over his life. Another reason to leave, Mycroft had to remind himself. Another reason why this was deeply unhealthy for him.

As soon as he'd heard the door slam open and then shut again, fear had paralyzed him, frozen him right in his movements even before Neil entered the room. He could barely breathe, let alone move, the dreadful fear raising its ugly head inside of his heart, the terrifying thought that in all likelihood, he wouldn't be able to leave now. He would be stuck here permanently, frozen forever, unable to break away because it was nearly impossible for him to say no to Neil, even when the older student showed the shadowy depths of his sadism. He had allowed so much, given away so much of himself, bartering and bargaining with the person he was supposed to trust, supposed to rely on, supposed to be in love with. It was sad, when he actually thought about it.

When the older student spoke, his voice was bitter and sharp enough that it caused Mycroft to flinch, a small tremor working its way up his spine until he had to flinch just to dismiss it from his body. Afraid. He was so very, very afraid of this man. Wasn't that one of the first signs of an abusive relationship? Constant fear of his partner? It was honestly amazing that he'd managed to survive this much time with Neil, considering how deeply afraid the other man made him, mostly using words alone. Neil wasn't a particularly violent man; no, his tongue rather than his fists was a much more dangerous instrument, and hurt a lot more. Which was why Mycroft had to steel himself now, managing the almost minute movement of straightening his spine, gathering what little strength he had for this fight. If he was going to go down, he was going to go down swinging. Not that he could manage to muster anger at the moment, but there was a small sliver of independence left in him, and he was going to use it for all it was worth to get through this.

Distantly, Mycroft realized that this had all been a trap, and one that he had freely walked into. Neil must have been watching, waiting, ready to spring the second he could prove that Mycroft was stepping out of line, disobeying his orders. Because the fact that Neil had come home early ensured that this run-in was anything other than ordinary. Neil was always very precise in his estimates, always exactly home when he said he would be, because precision was essential to maintaining control. It was why he had forced Mycroft into so many routines, so many patterned behaviors, because they became so deeply ingrained in Mycroft's brain that it was almost impossible to break out of them. By the time Mycroft realized that Neil was slowly training him into a behavior, it was too late for him to snap out of it, all too content to stay complacent and quiet because it was better than the alternative of upsetting Neil. And that was why he knew this was a trap, because Neil was just as routine as he forced Mycroft to be. His early return to the flat wasn't an unhappy accident; he had been watching, and waiting, and now he was determined to get his pound of flesh for Mycroft's disobedience.

Mycroft took one step towards the bed, tossing his suits the rest of the distance to put them on the mattress, and then turned back to Neil, taking a deep breath as he straightened his shoulders as well. Shoulders back, spine straight, posture as firm as he had to be with Neil, hard as that would be. "I'm leaving," he said, his voice quiet, but firm. "For good this time. I'm accepting a position in the British government, and they're going to ensure that I never have to see you again. I'm tired, Neil. Not angry, not upset, not even depressed. I'm simply tired. You're slowly draining the will to fight out of me, so I'm leaving before you can steal it entirely. There's nothing you can say that would change my mind, no matter how much you bully or threaten me, so please, in the interest of everyone involved, don't attempt to make me stay." That said, he moved to the bed to pack his suits in the case, carefully avoiding seeing Neil's reaction unless he had to.

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God, it was so good to see Greg that Mycroft couldn't seem to keep the smile off his lips, especially when he noted the familiar blush creeping across Greg's face and the absolutely delightful words that came wrapped in the voice he'd missed so much, though only a week had separated them. Then again, how could he help smiling when Greg said such wonderful things and raked his eyes so appreciatively over Mycroft's frame. Oh, he had missed Greg, but the week between them had been both necessary and beneficial, spurring recovery on both sides and protecting Sherlock from an inevitable downfall if not watched for at least that length of time.

"And you as well, Gregory," he replied, closing the door behind the DI. He took the opportunity to give the other man an appreciative once-over when their eye contact was temporarily averted, brown eyes sweeping across the room and no doubt admiring their accommodations. By the time Greg looked back Mycroft was frowning slightly, his eyes picking up the details he hadn't been able to see due to their separation and piecing together the puzzle of what had happened in Greg's time with the irascible younger man. "He gave you food poisoning," Mycroft said disapprovingly, and sighed slightly. "I'm surprised it wasn't a more serious illness, truthfully. He once gave me something very akin to Lyme disease with only temporary effects. Something of his own making." He gave Greg a slight smile that quickly became a more genuine one, his features unable to stop expressing how genuinely happy he was to see the other man.

Because while he had needed some time to heal by himself, he had also been somewhat lonely, alone in an expansive villa with nothing but his less than cheerful thoughts for company. It was enough to make anyone crave human contact besides a matter of fact and entirely formal doctor. And Greg was the best person he could have hoped for to keep him company, the only person he wanted with him at the moment. He cared for Anthea but she would be waiting for him upon his return, happy to see him healthy and ready to help him get back to work, and he loved his brother deeply but he didn't exactly make pleasant company the majority of the time, and hadn't since he was a child, maybe a preteen at the oldest.

But Sherlock was of no concern at the moment, because Mycroft and Greg were alone in a gorgeous villa in Greece and Mycroft had the chance to show Greg the better, luxurious side of his life, all while showering the DI with a pent-up amount of affection that seemed to flow more easily when he was casually on vacation like this. He really wanted at the moment to give the DI a hug, or, even better, a kiss, but both would seem improper and there was still the lingering insecurity that Greg's feelings might have changed in the time he was away. But for now, he could smile at Greg and ask, on the edge between politeness and affection, "Would you like a tour?"

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Mycroft instinctively flinched away at the tone of Neil's voice, which served to settle his rapidly boiling temper. No matter what, he hadn't lost complete control of the younger man. There were still those deep threads woven into the very fabric of his being, carefully put there by two years of hard work on Neil's part. It was good to see that even despite the younger man's spark of independence, at least some deeper part of him remembered who it was he belonged to. The auburn haired younger man tried and failed to suppress a small shiver; the motion visibly skittering down his spine as it robbed him of some of his stubbornness. Though the softening of Mycroft's bearing lasted only a second; the younger man seemed to pull himself together somewhat after setting his suits down. It was almost laughable the way that he straightened his back and squared his shoulders, as if somehow having proper posture would somehow lend him the mental fortitude that he needed to actually stick to whatever ridiculous plan he had cocked up. Neil cocked one blonde eyebrow, crossing his arms in front of him as he stared down the younger man, wordlessly challenging him to speak.

When he did, the words hit Neil like ice water. Shock would have been a vast understatement for the sensation that swept through him upon hearing the younger man's surprisingly firm assertion that he was leaving. Mycroft Holmes, dropping out of Uni to go run away and join the government. The idea was so bizarre that it was almost laughable. Neil did in fact laugh, a short, sharp bark to let the younger man know exactly what he thought of his ridiculous scheme. He wasn't sure who was pulling the younger man's chain, but surely it had to be some sort of sick joke that one of Neil's friends had taken to pulling on the younger student. The hollow tone of Mycroft's voice as he continued speaking changed Neil's mind about that, however. Usually the younger man had been able to pick up on the machinations of Neil's social group, and responded with fire or ice depending on how their relationship was going at the time. This wasn't anything like that. Carefully, Neil watched as Mycroft finished speaking and turned away, resuming the almost mechanical motions of packing up his case.

Emerald eyes carefully assessed each and every one of the younger man's tells that he had picked up on over the past two years. Mycroft was right. He wasn't furious, he wasn't despondent. He wasn't **anything**. What he was seemed more like a ghost than a man; just sort of a translucent, vague copy of the person he used to be. Everything about him was worn out and worn thin, from his physical appearance to his voice to the very way he carried himself. Nearly any spark that Mycroft had once had about him was nearly extinguished. It was amazing that he even managed to gather up enough of what remained of himself to even make a play at leaving. As the younger student continued his stilted dance, moving slowly between the closet and his case without so much as raising his eyes in his boyfriend's direction, Neil made a decision. Obviously the poor thing needed a bit of something to fuel him, keep him afloat during this rather unexpected period of malaise. That meant carefully building Mycroft's fragile psyche back up before tearing it down again. Their usual dance, but with a bit more at stake. Waiting until the younger man turned away, heading back towards the closet to gather up the last of his suits, Neil struck. Silently and swiftly, he padded across the room, twining his arms around the younger man's almost too-thin waistline, burying his nose in the soft hair at the base of Mycroft's skull.

"Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft," he breathed softly against the younger man's neck. "If you want my attention so badly, there are better ways to go about getting it. You don't have to threaten to leave just to get me to spend more time with you, love." Neil moved his lips up to the curve of Mycroft's ear as he let his hands travel upwards, tracing patterns across the younger man's chest as he encircled him completely with his arms. In a soft, almost sultry whisper he continued; letting his lips brush against the slightly flushed skin of Mycroft's ear and neck as he peppered his speech with delicate, affectionate kisses. "Things have been rather stressful for you with exams coming up. I expect that's part of why you're starting to look so thin again. I'm not even angry about this little outburst; just worried about you. You want to get away from University for awhile? That's doable. I'll take you on a vacation, love. Just the two of us, away from here and all our respective obligations. Nothing to steal my attention away from you. What do you say? Let's just quite this silly fight before it begins and just go away together, love."

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Mycroft looked fantastic. Greg felt just the slightest bit shallow for focusing so heavily on the physical component of the man's being, but goddamn it was hard not to. He looked wonderful, and not just in a 'fit' sort of way. His face was perhaps more relaxed than Lestrade had ever seen it before; fine lines on his brow and at the corners of his lips and eyes smoothing out some as the politician's previously pinched expression faded. His normally pale skin was sun-kissed; the barest hints of a warm pinkish undertone to his complexion that indicated to Greg he had been spending some quality time out in the Mediterranean sun. Despite Anthea's reassurances that any health related relapses or setbacks were minor, the DI still found himself worrying about arriving at their vacation spot to find a pale, withdrawn, shut-in sort of bearing about the other man. Instead, Mycroft positively glowed. Any lingering doubts and guilt that Greg felt for staying with Sherlock instead of with Mycroft for the past week were peacefully put to rest by the well rested politician's charming smile and delightful sparkle in his blue-grey eyes.

As he entered the villa, his chestnut eyes widened a good bit in surprise. The place was gorgeous. Not as gorgeous as the company he'd be enjoying, but stunning all the same. The villa itself boasted a large, open floor plan with plenty of windows that offered terrific views of what Greg could only assume was a private beach. The entire setup, from the decor to the location to the well dressed inhabitant, spoke of that understated type of elegance that conveyed wealth hundreds of times more effectively than some garish setup would have. God, the whole place reeked of money and luxury, and it made Greg squirm just a bit (in both excitement and discomfort) to think that he'd be spending the next couple of weeks in such extraordinary accommodations. Before he could focus too much on how out of place he felt Mycroft was reading him, accurately deducing the food poisoning that his brother had inflicted on the DI during his stay.

"God," he chuckled, meeting Mycroft's gaze with an amused quirk of his eyebrow. "I think that no matter how many times I'm exposed to that Holmesian scrutiny, I'll still be astounded when you seem to pick facts out of thin air. You really are something." At the last sentence his voice trailed off a bit, lost somewhere between admiration and outright fondness. Before he could get lost in admiring Mycroft's lovely mind in the same way he had temporarily been distracted by his rather attractive appearance, Greg caught himself and focused instead on Mycroft's words. "Though your brother is an absolute piece of work! Ah, not really. He wasn't any more or less unbearable than usual. I think he didn't give me anything worse than food poisoning because that was his way of going easy on me. Insufferable brat," he growled fondly. "I'm glad I got to spend the time with him, but I'm infinitely more glad to let him go back to his usual solitary, surly self."

Mycroft gifted him with another easy, genuine smile and Greg's insides about turned to water. It would have been altogether too easy to wind his arms around Mycroft's waist (slightly diminished, Greg noted with some worry, but nothing too extreme), and just yank him into a kiss. To pour out all the affection that had been building inside the DI nonstop since they parted ways on the day they were both discharged. To write his appreciation for the other man across that pale skin with lips and tongue and... Wow. He'd only been in Mycroft's presence for less than five minutes and already his mind was running rampant. Carefully, he took a deep breath to steady himself. Making any sudden physical moves was the very last thing that needed to happen. As much as it pained Greg to remember, Mycroft had a very... _complicated_... experience during his captivity with Neil. Any and all of his police training in dealing with such matters, plus the small bit of uninterrupted reading he was able to do while watching over Sherlock, told him the same thing. To let the other man initiate any kind of affectionate contact first, or at least indicate his desire for it before diving into anything even remotely physical. Covering his introspective pause with an appreciative hum and a sweeping inspection of the villa, Greg turned back to Mycroft with a smile.

"I'd love a tour," he answered happily, with his lips settling easily into a small grin. "Maybe you can show me where my bag ended up along the way? They wouldn't let me carry it in." Greg gave a playful twist of his mouth, poorly faking displeasure at the idea. "That is if you haven't had the whole thing toted away and burned, mind you. In which case I suppose I can't complain. You're amazingly generous for inviting me along. If you want to burn my vacation wear, not being sore about it is the least I could do to repay you."

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For a few glorious minutes, Mycroft thought Neil might be too stunned to actually be capable of a response. That, of course, was a completely ridiculous notion because Neil never gave up on anything without a fight, and certainly not on Mycroft, willing to do almost anything to keep the younger man under his power. So, of course, this was no exception, and though Mycroft didn't hear his approach, he wasn't surprised in the least when Neil came up and wrapped his arms around the younger man's waist, beginning to speak in that sultry voice that always did awful things to Mycroft's insides. It wasn't even a bedroom voice, really; just the voice that Neil used whenever he wanted something. On any other day, it would work like a charm and Mycroft would practically melt into the affection from the older man, giving in to the entirely all too tempting idea of going on a vacation with Neil. As it was, a slight flush was creeping across his face and neck, and he had to close his eyes for a second and remind himself that he'd already made up his mind. Of course Neil wasn't going to let him go easily, and all of his words now were just an act. He was going to try to catch his flies with honey before using vinegar.

When Mycroft turned around in the older man's embrace to face Neil, he was sure that Neil thought he'd won, that Mycroft was going to give up and give in like he always did. The look on Neil's face when, instead, Mycroft put his hands on Neil's chest and pushed him away, was entirely worth it. The push itself was rather gentle, just enough force to break the circle of Neil's arms around his waist, which wasn't much at all because Neil had apparently gone rather pliant with shock. "No," Mycroft said, and his voice was once again a touch firm, serious enough to show Neil that he wasn't kidding and a few sweet words and some honeyed affection wasn't going to change his mind. He was all in for this, for better or for worse, and Neil had to understand that, had to let him go before this turned into a fight that would get Neil absolutely nowhere. Of course, Mycroft knew that wouldn't be the case, which was why he was currently bracing for the storm that was undoubtedly heading his way.

"I'm absolutely serious, Neil, this isn't some ploy to get your attention. You can't fix this with a few pretty words and a little affection. I am really, truly done, and I am leaving permanently. Nothing you say or do is going to change my mind, so stop acting like you can when nothing you have up your sleeve is going to work. I know you as well as you know me, and I know everything you're going to throw at me. You tried sweetness and it didn't work, so you'll try to hurt me next, cripple me enough that I won't be able to limp out of here with my wounded psyche. When that doesn't work, you'll resort to threats, you'll tell me I can't leave, that I belong here, with you, and I'm only making it worse for myself by attempting it in the first place." His eyes were positively steely, made from such a thick layer of ice that the temperature of the room seemed to drop with his words.

"So you see, I'm not leaving, because I'm already gone. You cannot sway my decision, my mind has been made up for a long time. It'd be best if you just let me go, but I know you're incapable of that. So please, let's get this over with as quickly as possible."

\---------------------------------------

Greg seemed just a touch uncomfortable about the lavishness of the accommodations, and it made Mycroft both pleased and a tiny bit anxious. Pleased because the DI definitely deserved to be treated well, even pampered, and Mycroft could certainly offer that to him, and anxious because it made Mycroft seem almost spoiled, in a way. He was used to things like this, he had always lived a rather affluent life, from the Holmes family fortune to his own high paying, albeit stressful job. Accustomed to luxury didn't really describe it; he expected these things, was used to them. And while he wasn't thoroughly attached to physical possessions, because neither of the Holmes brothers really was, he still appreciated the finer things in life, well tailored suits--which Greg seemed to appreciate on him as well, which was a reason to have them in itself--vacations like this, expensive but tasteful flats. He could only hope that it didn't reflect badly on him in Greg's mind.

But that train of thought was entirely swept away by the more than appreciative tone of Greg's voice as he complimented Mycroft, lost in an affectionate appreciation of the other man's sharp intellect. The DI seemed like he had to shake himself out of it slightly to continue talking, staying on the neutral subject of Sherlock and the better than expected week he'd spent with him. Despite Greg saying that the younger man had been a little difficult, he didn't show any signs of any ill effects. He looked...well, radiant would be a bit romanticized, but he certainly looked bright. Healthy, happy to be here, unable to keep that easy grin off of his face. It was lovely, and Mycroft found himself once again basking in the sheer presence of Greg Lestrade, soaking up all the warmth the other man had to give.

Greg seemed to take a deep breath to steady himself and after another encompassing glance about the villa, turned back to Mycroft with a response to the other man's question. Mycroft had to chuckle at the comment about burning clothes and the slight, artificial displeasure over Greg not being allowed to carry his own bags in. "I can assure you, I would never be so rude as to burn your clothing," he said as he headed to Greg's room, smiling at the DI. "Of course, if you need anything at all during your stay, it will be easy to procure it for you, and that includes any clothing if you so wish. Simply give me your measurements, and we could have something tailored." He flipped on the lights in Greg's room; a slightly more modest affair than Mycroft's master bedroom, but luxurious enough to be acceptable for the DI to stay in. Greg had his own bathroom attached as well, and his luggage was sitting neatly on the floor at the foot of his bed.

"This is where you'll be staying for the time being." Mycroft added just a hint of implication to that statement, because he wanted Greg to understand that he did actually want to deepen the more "physical" connection between them, as well as the romantic one. It was the most polite way that Mycroft could say that at some point, Greg would be more than welcome in his bed. "Your bathroom is through that door, and your closet is against that wall." He led the way back out of the room, shutting the light back off. The rest of his tour was short but thorough, briefly showing Greg his master bedroom and bathroom and the living room that led seamlessly into the kitchen, the open area Greg had already seen. They ended the tour on the back deck that overlooked the beach and ocean, the sunny day picking up the silver threads that made up most of Greg's hair and making them glimmer in the most appealing way. It made Mycroft's smile widen as he put his hands in his pockets and asked, "What do you think?"

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When Mycroft turned around slowly in his arms, Neil gave a contented little sigh. That had been almost disappointingly easy. At least the vacation would be fun, and offer plenty of opportunities to help build up the younger man back up a bit. The slightly taller blonde leaned forward just a bit, ready to capture Mycroft's lips in a passionate kiss of reconciliation when the coldness in those blue grey eyes struck him. In what may have been the longest, most startling few seconds of Neil Gibson's life, Mycroft reached up and pushed him away. The blonde's arms dropped back down to his sides, momentarily frozen and rendered numb by the overwhelming sense of shock that pinned him in place. The only part of him that seemed to be able to move at all were his emerald eyes, smoldering with fury and narrowing in pure rage as Mycroft went on to explain that no, Neil's tactics wouldn't work to draw him back this time. The naked ire on the older man's face did nothing to stem the tide of Mycroft's glacial words. Coolly, he informed Neil that he wasn't playing around, and wasn't going to be swayed. No, Mycroft certainly seemed to think that simply by holding firm to his convictions that he'd somehow magically get to reassert the control over his life that he had willingly let Neil take away, piece by piece.

Something furious and twisted coiled up in the back of his brain, causing every muscle in his body to tense with the force of containing the roiling, seething fury that built within him. Neil's tentative hold on his temper finally snapped when Mycroft crossed his final nerve. The posh little bitch actually went so far as to suggest that he **knew** the tactics that the older man would use now that his ploy at a sweet reconciliation had failed. The most infuriating part of it was that Mycroft was entirely right. That's exactly what Neil would have done, had the brilliant bastard not mapped it all out. Well. If Mycroft wanted something unpredictable, a side of Neil that he hadn't seen before, he was certainly about to get it. It was almost too easy to drop the remaining tatters of his self-restraint. After all, if Mycroft was truly dead set on leaving there was no reason to hide anymore. Deciding to call the younger man's bluff, he went all in by simply letting go. If he couldn't accomplish what he wanted with manipulation, he'd simply have to resort to terror. Abandoning rational thought, Neil lashed out, a sickening sound echoing through the room as the back of his hand collided with Mycroft's face. Mycroft staggered from the blow, dropping down to one knee beside the bed.

"All right then," he hissed, voice low and dangerous. "You want to stop playing games? Fine. Gladly, in fact." Thick fingers tangled themselves in auburn hair, wrenching Mycroft up from where he had fallen to his knee, thrown off balance by the blow that caught him unawares. Without any tenderness, Neil swiped his thumb over the younger man's bloodied lip, pressing sharply when he got to the split in the tender flesh. "Let's stop pretending. Here are the simple facts for you, Mikey. You don't have a fucking say in any of this. You can stop trying to exercise your independence because you don't have any. **I. OWN. YOU.** " Neil didn't bother to hide the delighted, if cruel, smile that played over his lips as shocked grey blue eyes met his. Every ounce of the other man's expression spoke of brokenheartedness and betrayal. Perfect. Even Mycroft fucking Holmes didn't see **that** hit coming.

"You let it happen, you know," he delivered smoothly, green eyes burning as he stared down the younger man stuck in his grasp. "You turned yourself over to me a piece at a time, begging me to take whatever I wanted. You gave over every part of yourself to me and you moaned your way through each and every one of those exchanges. You want to leave? **Too fucking bad.** You don't get to make those choices anymore. You did this to yourself, Mycroft." His free hand wound itself around the base of his captive's pale throat, using the leverage to yank Mycroft closer to him. Another heartless smile crept across his lips as Neil let his delight at Mycroft's feeble, stunned struggles play across features twisted with unrestrained cruelty. With their faces mere millimeters apart, he hardly had to whisper to make himself heard, leaning closely into the other man, pressing their foreheads again as he continued with his threats.

 "This is what's going to happen now," he growled, clenching his fingers tightly around the slender column of Mycroft's throat. "You're going to fucking apologize to me for being such a presumptive little bitch. You're going to continue to apologize to me using your mouth, your hands, your arse... whatever I feel like having you apologize with. You're going to prove how sorry you are to me by apologizing until you're raw and bloody all over. Then, when you think you can't possibly take it anymore I'm going to fuck you into the mattress, because I **can.** Then you're going to unpack and maybe, **maybe** if I'm satisfied that you've finally learned some obedience I'll let you take a shower and have some aspirin before you cry yourself to sleep. And don't get me wrong, Mycroft. You won't be crying because you didn't manage to get away, you'll be sobbing because you disappointed me so badly. **Do. we. have. an. understanding?** "


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft finally manages to leave Neil, and Greg and Mycroft get a little more comfortable on their vacation.
> 
> Warnings: Eating disorders, emotionally and physically abusive relationship, sadism, Uni-flashbacks, introspection, "emotional torture porn", and the beginnings of fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just wanted to quickly apologize for the delay between chapters, I know we're behind in updating but some real life stuff intruded for both Mazi and I, and sadly this got neglected. We should be back to your regularly scheduled Mystrade goodness now, though, so thanks for sticking with us. <3 -Cheshire

Lestrade colored a bit at Mycroft's more than generous offer to provide him with new clothing.  Good lord, the man certainly was the very definition of a gracious host.  "Thanks," he chuckled, trying to will the blush out of his cheeks.  "But ah... well.  I'm sure that while not up to society standards, what I have is more than suitable for the beach.  Though, I suppose if you wanted to dine out at some point I could use a new suit.  Which I can purchase myself, though I do appreciate your more than generous offer, thank you.  But ah... well.  Having somebody point me in the right direction would always be appreciated.  You've got quite the eye for smart looking clothes, and I'm half blind when it comes to that stuff so... yeah.  That could be fun, if you wanted to that is.  Besides, I like you too much to make you be seen with me out around here in something off the rack," he joked with another smile.  Funny, a year ago if someone had told him he'd be exchanging playful banter with Mycroft Holmes he would have laughed himself breathless.  If that same someone told him that he'd be exchanging said banter at a shared vacation in Greece, he'd probably have the person admitted for a mental health check.  But here they were, vacationing together in Greece, and the salty breeze dancing through the open windows was toying with Mycroft's curls, giving the normally severe-looking man a edge of softness.

As the wandered slowly through the rest of the villa, Mycroft seemed so at home and perfectly relaxed in his surroundings that it was difficult not to take the man's lead.  While the DI would normally be a bit uncomfortable around this much luxury, it was easy to follow the politician's lead and simply feel at home.  Besides, it's not as if he was visiting some posh stranger's place; this was **_Mycroft_**.  Though he might play at being scandalized at the idea of Greg using the wrong fork at the dining table he wouldn't really care.  As they wandered through the villa, Greg allowed himself to steal little glances at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye.  Nothing in the man's body language seemed to betray any kind of discomfort; in fact the longer there were together the more at ease Mycroft seemed to become.  As he showed Greg his extraordinary room, something about his choice of words tickled the back of the DI's mind.  He had to turn the exact phrasing over in his head for a few minutes, lost in thought through the rest of the tour.  Finally, it clicked into place, and Greg's brown eyes widened at the implications.  His room would be where he was staying... _for the time being_.  It certainly was the classiest way that Lestrade had ever heard someone confess that they wanted to get him into bed.  Before Greg could make any comment though, they were walking out on to the sunny back deck, with Mycroft asking him his thoughts on their accommodations.  Greg closed his eyes and breathed in the warm sea air for a moment, letting the wind play havoc with his spiky grey hair before turning back to his auburn haired companion.

"It's beautiful," the DI answered honestly, meeting the politician's gaze with a warm smile as he tried to fight his hair back into some sort of order.  "Breathtaking doesn't even begin to cover it.  Really Mycroft, I don't think I've ever even visited anywhere nicer, let alone stayed there.  I can't thank you enough for asking me along.  And well... I honestly hate to be a bother but I'd love a drink, and for you to tell me how you've spent the beginning of your trip," he said, fixing Mycroft with another one of his grins.  "I'm dying for a good beer, or potentially something harder.  Your brother can and will drive a man to drinking, but I really didn't want to trust anything that your brother had in his liquor cabinet.  One of the glass decanters had a finger in it."

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The blow from Neil came out of nowhere, knocking Mycroft to his knee from a combination of the force applied and sheer shock that Neil would hit him. But that wasn't the end of it; oh no, Neil was very quickly yanking him up by his hair, holding him in place as his features twisted into an ugly smile, the mask finally, truly dropping away. More frightening, though, was the hand that wrapped itself around the base of Mycroft's throat, not squeezing at first, merely holding him in place as Neil went on the most terrifying tirade Mycroft had ever heard from the other man. Mycroft could barely even struggle against the older man, too stunned by the hit and Neil's violence to properly fight him even though by all means he should have been lashing out and trying to run by now. Instead he was frozen in place, a fly trapped in amber as Neil explained exactly how the situation was going to go, his hand tightening on Mycroft's throat.

Mycroft could still breathe, but just barely; he was reduced to short, shallow breaths, fearing an increase of pressure from the other man that could result in unconsciousness or even death. And at this point, he didn't think Neil would kill him, but if the older man was this angry and this determined, unconsciousness wasn't out of the question, and the last thing Mycroft wanted was to be unconscious in this apartment with Neil around. Even a few minutes was enough time for the older student to make it impossible for Mycroft to leave. And Mycroft could see in Neil's eyes that he'd crossed the line from anger into sheer madness and if Mycroft didn't find some way to appease him this situation could very easily cross into something much more dangerous for him. Now was the time for him to speak, to tell Neil something he wanted to hear, to use logic, but Mycroft couldn't find his voice, and it wasn't from the pressure against his windpipe. He was still in shock that Neil had actually hit him, because the older man had never gone that far before.

Neil had used some truly awful methods to keep Mycroft with him before, but he'd always stopped short of physical violence. Mycroft couldn't even remember Neil pushing him, except maybe to push him away when they were having a fight. Certainly Neil had never hit him before, and while things sometimes got a little rough in the bedroom to cater to Neil's darker tastes, the older man had never choked him, stopping short at an occasional gentle, possessive squeeze at his throat. Which was why, now, Mycroft Holmes, supposedly brilliant prodigy, couldn't even come up with anything at all. He just wanted to fold, give in to Neil and do as the other man asked, as painful as it would be. It was fine, he could make it up to Neil, as long as it would take it would be worth it because he hated having Neil this angry, hated that he was disappointing him, hated this entire situation that he'd put himself in. This was his fault, what on earth had he been thinking with this? It was best that he give up now, before he managed to get himself in any deeper into this mess and upset Neil more. He could apologize, profusely, verbally and then physically and do whatever Neil asked. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to earn his way back into the relationship, but this would be the most serious time. It was the only option, right?

NO! Mycroft felt himself snapping back out of the fearful trance Neil had put him in like he'd been doused in icewater. Oh, god, the older man had almost had him for a few minutes there, and he still did in body. But in mind, Mycroft was already tracing every possible action, every way he could get out of this situation on top. He wasn't going to give up just because he'd never seen this side of Neil, this terrifying side that was also the most dangerous he'd ever seen. But he needed more time. He needed something to settle the other man before something worse happened.

He scratched at Neil's hand on his throat, trying to get the other man to release enough for him to speak, and it took a minute, the blonde giving a threatening squeeze before loosening his grip enough for Mycroft to draw in full breaths of air. Of course, that didn't mean that Neil removed his hand entirely, the implication clear; if Mycroft didn't have something pleasing to say, he wouldn't  hesitate to squeeze. "Neil," Mycroft gasped, his voice hoarse, "I have to be at a meeting in half an hour. If I'm not at that meeting, someone will come to the flat looking for me. They know about you, so if you try to cancel it, they won't listen. I have to be at that meeting. Then I can come  back here, and make it up to you."

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was good to see that Greg seemed to be relaxing quickly, turning a warm smile on Mycroft that seemed right at home on the sunny back porch. He wondered when Greg was going to get over this habit of constantly thanking him for bringing him along, but at least the DI seemed to be relaxing somewhat, at least enough to ask for a drink without blushing his way through it. Mycroft had to chuckle at Greg's assertion about his brother's liquor cabinet, because it was absolutely true. "I can't blame you; I myself have never taken anything offered to me in his flat, even if it was made in front of me," he said, heading back into the kitchen. "And there's no need to continue thanking me, Gregory, it was my pleasure to invite you."

He set two glasses on the counter and looked through his liquor cabinet for a minute, trying to figure out what it was that Greg would like without having to ask. After all, of what use were his deductive skills if he couldn't use them for something? Though he himself would usually drink wine, or brandy after a meal if he felt so inclined, Greg didn't quite seem like the type and surely the DI would appreciate something stronger. Gin was always a safe bet, right? Mycroft liked it for it's dryness, and it seemed like something Greg might like. He set the bottle down on the counter, going into the fridge for cranberry juice as he said, "As for me, I can't really say I've done much with my vacation. Anthea won't let me work, and aside from nearly daily check-ups from my doctor, I've mostly spent my time here alone. Reflecting, I suppose, and filing things away."

He returned with the cranberry juice and quickly set about mixing two drinks, which surprisingly wasn't very difficult with one arm in a sling. "It's been extremely relaxing, however. I don't think I've been in the sun for this long in a while." He smiled at Greg as he returned to the porch, sliding him his glass. "And how is your wound healing?"

\---------------------------------------------

The fear that seeped in and replaced the steely resolve in Mycroft's eyes made something thrum and flutter deep in Neil's chest.  Seeing the fight drain out of the younger man gave the older blonde a surge of power that coiled tightly in his lower abdomen; his own delight in Mycroft's horrified shock feeding the sensation until he was positively high on his partner's panic.  God, he should have done this ages ago.  Manipulation would only get him so far.  Neil had always known that someday he'd have to push Mycroft to the very limits of his seemingly unending tolerance, to push past his false sense of safety and truly make the younger man terrified for not only his relationship, but his life.  The only question that remained in Neil's mind was why he had waited so very long to do it.  The feel of Mycroft's windpipe fluttering fitfully under his palm, the blank look of sheer panic written across the younger man's face... they were perhaps the greatest aphrodisiacs, the most intoxicating drugs Neil had ever experienced.

Stormy blue eyes started to glass over, a combination of the stark disbelief and lack of oxygen making the young man look as if he were about to pass out at any second.  Neil read every flicker of emotion that ran through those wide blue eyes; every minute shift in Mycroft's expression laying his innermost thoughts bare for Neil to delight in.  Panic, sorrow, a little bit of self-hatred for good measure... each flash of pain and regret sent a little surge through the older blonde.  If he hadn't been paying such careful attention, making sure to savor every little shift in Mycroft's aristocratic features, Neil would easily have missed the split second return of the younger man's icy resolve.  Even with his intense focus it nearly slipped past him, Neil almost writing it off as figment of his imagination.  But then Mycroft was scratching at the back of his hand, a pleading look in his eyes, and the older man **knew** that what he had seen was true.  Mycroft was going to try and weasel out of this somehow.  He continued to scratch at the strong hand around his throat, and finally the older student relented.  Neil answered with a threatening squeeze, reminding the younger man who was in charge, before he loosened his grip enough that Mycroft could take full, unrestricted breaths again.

Though if Neil had known what the disingenuous little fuck was planning on saying with his newly recaptured breath, he would have simply throttled him first to spare his temper the additional aggravation.  Mycroft was making some pretty sounding excuses, even if his normally smooth voice came out gravely and hoarse.  Lies.  They were all lies, each and every syllable.  A hastily cobbled together story concocted by Mycroft's oxygen starved brain to try and allow him some room to wiggle and writhe until he had escaped Neil's grasp again.  It wasn't going to happen.  The single remaining part of his brain that had any rational thought managed to convince Neil not to choke the consciousness out of Mycroft right then and there.  Instead of tightening his hand around Mycroft's throat to show his displeasure, Neil dropped his grasp to the younger student's lapels.  With his fists full of expensive fabric, he spun around, yanking Mycroft's thin frame with him.  It wasn't difficult for Neil to use his slightly greater height and weight to his advantage.  With every ounce of force he could muster Neil slammed Mycroft into a bare patch of wall, smiling evilly at the resounding crack of his partner's head hitting the drywall.

"I will not be placated like some fucking **simpleton** ," he hissed, shaking Mycroft with each word for added effect.  "More lies.  You always lie Mycroft, but at least you save your false truths largely for yourself.  Telling yourself that I love you, that you have some kind of heart, some kind of value.  You might buy your own empty words and falsities, but I won't.  No.  You're not getting out of here so easily.  No one is going to come looking for you because no one cares, you stupid little fuck.  Now.  Apologize for lying to me."  He emphasized his demand by pushing Mycroft into the wall first, the blow relatively soft compared to the force of the initial impact.  "You want to make it up to me?  Make it up to me **now**."

~~~~~~~~~~~

"I'm sorry, I'll try to stop apologizing but I make no promises," Greg called out as Mycroft slipped back into the villa, the DI's tone split evenly between genuine and joking.  His silvery brows knitted together a bit as Mycroft described the first portion of his vacation, and how it had mostly been spent lost in a sort of introspective state.  While that was good in a way, allowing the man to get things sorted out in his own mind, too much could easily drive a man insane.  Greg was more than familiar with the dangers of spending too much time in your own head.  He'd spent no few dark nights doing much the same; trying to make sense of things that had happened in his life, things that would never have an identifiable rhyme or reason.  It was so simple to slide under the avalanche of thoughts, and Greg had spent no few days digging himself out of the aftermath of a night like that.  While Mycroft didn't seem to be buried underneath a mountain of complicated thoughts and feelings, how far off was that inevitable crash?  At the very least Lestrade knew that he could be a good distraction, and perhaps a sounding board for the troubled politician.

Mycroft swept back into the room with an easy grace, two glasses balanced elegantly in his free hand.  Sliding one across the table to Greg, he flashed a smile that very nearly made the DI's heart stop.  God, it should be illegal for someone to be that posh and that charming at the same time.  The clean lines of Mycroft's trousers and shirt contrasted with the soft curve of his lips and the slight wave to his hair, the effect balancing the man in some impossibly attractive ground between casual and formal.  Something about the man's attire made Greg want to make him just a bit more disheveled; to pull him in for the kind of kiss that would leave his trousers creased and shirt rumpled, auburn hair in disarray.  A warmth that had nothing to do with the sun crept through his chest, though fortunately it didn't appear to want to climb up his neck to his cheeks just yet.  Instead of pursuing the kiss, Lestrade cleared his throat and took an experimental sip of his drink, hoping the action would cover any expression that would give his line of thoughts away.

"Damn that's good," he murmured appreciatively.  "You're always so spot on with everything, aren't you.  I love gin.  But you obviously knew that already."  Greg tried to volley Mycroft's smile back at him, but realized that he probably just looked like a big goof.  No, cleverly flirtatious smiles were far better suited Mycroft.  Greg had to stick to his own brand of charm, a combination of earnestness and gruffness that he sincerely hoped the handsome politician still found appealing.

"As for my wound, it's healing up well!  The worst part now is just making sure I don't overdo anything.  The incision is closed and the stitches are out, but they think it'll be at least another three months for the scar tissue to be strong enough that I can go back to full duty without worrying about tearing anything.  So when I do head back to the Yard I'm going to be on desk duty for a while."  Greg made a bit of a face, nose crinkling with disgust that was only half feigned.  "At least I'll be able to get some paperwork done. I'm sure that's something that you're looking forward to upon your return to work as well.  What about your arm?  Do you get to take your sling off soon?"

\------------------------

Mycroft could tell even from the second the first word crossed his lips that Neil wasn't buying any of this, knew that he was lying and it was only serving to enrage him further. This was only confirmed when the older man turned and slammed him up against the wall, Mycroft's head cracking back against it in a way that made his head throb and everything go slightly fuzzy around the edges. He was too dazed by the blow to properly listen to Neil, but as the other man shook him and forced his attention, he managed to focus on Neil's words. Jesus. He was absolutely, utterly fucked, and there was nothing he could do about it. Lying had been his most viable option, but Neil had seen right through that, no doubt picking up on some subtle tell from Mycroft that tipped him off. Somehow, though, Mycroft thought that Neil wouldn't have accepted it as an excuse even if it was true.

So what were his options now? The most obvious one, the one that he couldn't take, would be to give up. Do as Neil said and start apologizing as much as he could now, make it up to the older man as best as he could through a long, arduous, and excruciatingly painful process. No, he couldn't do that. He'd already gotten in this deep, he had to commit entirely. If Neil was going to keep him here, he would have to forcibly hold Mycroft down, because Mycroft was done trying to appease his insatiable partner. There was never any way to keep Neil pleased, always some way that he fell short of meeting the other man's demands. Mycroft just couldn't keep up with it anymore. So no matter how bad or violent Neil got, Mycroft wasn't going to submit.

But that left him with limited options. There was certainly no way he could talk himself out of this situation; Neil was past the point of logic and so goddamn angry that he'd probably murder Mycroft if he said the wrong thing. The thought was chilling, but realistic; that Neil could legitimately murder him at the moment and no one would know. Well, probably no one. And that let Mycroft settle on his final option; respond in kind, cut his losses, and run.

It was a monumentally bad idea, but the only one he had. It was lucky that Neil was pressed so close to him to pin him down, one of Mycroft's legs in between his own. The grip on his suit would be the hard part, but Mycroft hoped that grip would loosen in just a second. He allowed what looked like a pained acceptance cross his features, causing Neil's grip to loosen a fraction, and looked down as if in shame and resignation. Really, it was just so he could aim, and before Neil could say anything else, Mycroft brought his knee crashing up into the other man's groin, causing Neil to bend slightly from the blow and allowing Mycroft to pry his hands from his lapels before he ran for the door as if the Devil was on his heels. Which, really, he was.

~~~~~~~~~~~

There was something a bit off about the DI's expression before he cleared his throat, but Mycroft didn't have time to pursue that line of thought as Greg continued talking. He took a seat at the table across from Greg, letting his eyes run over the DI's features as he talked. God, Greg's smiles were both infectious and wonderful at the same time, and Mycroft really had neither the energy nor the inclination to bother trying to keep his own smile off his lips. It was nice to see that Greg could easily slip back into the flirtatious give and take they'd established on that ill-fated date at the pub ages ago. It was just as relaxing and easygoing as it had been then, which helped to soothe Mycroft's insecurities to no end. He'd needed this, really.

He grimaced slightly at Greg's question about his arm;  "Unfortunately, I've been assured that three months is the earliest amount of time," he responded, leaning back in his chair. "Not that I'm surprised, considering it was a rather serious wound, but it will certainly prevent me from working at my fullest capacity when I return. Which will unfortunately make it that much more difficult for me to catch up on my neglected work."

He offered a smile to Greg, partially apologetic. "But that's not something to dwell on for the time being. I'm glad to hear that you're recovering from your own injuries." What he didn't say was that he wanted to have the DI's chest laid bare beneath him so he could kiss along the entire length of that scar, soothe it with lips to take away the negative memories associated with it. But, that would be impolite and Greg seemed to blush when he undid his buttons; actually saying something like that to him might cause his brain to entirely short circuit. Instead, Mycroft took a sip of his drink, placing his glass down before opening another button on his shirt, smoothing down the leg of his trousers before turning back to Greg. "So, I must ask, since this is your first time visiting Greece, what would you like to do? I'm afraid I'm usually disinclined to enjoy tourist attractions, but I could make an exception in your case."

\----------------------------------

Fury and adrenaline sang through Neil's veins, heightening each and every aspect of his current situation.  The soft feel of expensive fabric crumpled beneath his fingers, the way his hands moved in time with each of Mycroft's shallow breaths, the heat radiating from the body pinned next to his; each sensation seared itself into his hyperactive mind.  The slight hint of sweat mixed with Mycroft's expensive aftershave tugged at his abdomen, his body confusing aggression and arousal until Neil wasn't sure there was a difference anymore.  Not that he would have cared if he could have drawn a line between the twin sensations; this was the very best he had felt in months.  No, Mycroft was definitely not leaving.  Not after he made Neil feel like this.  And oh, how things were going to change.  Now that the dam had broken, there was no reason to hold back any further.  All he had to do was finish wringing the last vestiges of defiance from his partner, and a wonderful new dynamic could begin between them.  One with Neil in complete and utter control

Finally his tactics worked.  Mycroft started to fold, a lovely look of despairing resignation settling across his aristocratic features as he hung his head.  Those stormy blue eyes refused to rise to meet his gaze, instead focused on the ground in what Neil could only assume was shame for having disappointing his partner so badly.  Mycroft pressed his lips together, auburn brows knitting together as he prepared to speak, and Neil allowed himself a cruelly satisfied smile.  That smile only lasted a moment, though, as what Mycroft delivered instead of an apology was a most unexpected blow, driving his knee up between Neil's legs with a surprising amount of force.

Two things happened when Mycroft unexpectedly brought his knee up into Neil's groin.  The first was that he loosened his grip on the younger man's lapels even more, allowing the treacherous little bastard room to break his hold.  The second was the breath rushing from him; his body instinctively bending at the middle as the edges of his vision darkened.  Fuck, that **hurt**.  While he panted, placing one hand on the wall to steady himself, Mycroft fled the bedroom.  Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.  He had to stop Mycroft before he made it out of their flat.  Once in public it would be exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, to unleash the full power of his arsenal against the younger man without drawing undue attention to them. 

There was no way he was going to catch up with Mycroft, though.  Walking hurt, and the thought of running made a wave of nausea rise up and tighten his throat.  No, he certainly wasn't going to be able to run down the younger man and catch him that way.  What he needed to do was somehow, despite what had just happened, convince Mycroft to come back, or at least to hesitate in his flight long enough for Neil to close the distance between them.  Straightening himself as best he could, he strode calmly from the bedroom.  As he did, he carefully focused on letting a false mask of sorrow settle over his face, tried to will his emerald eyes to water.

"Oh my god.  Mycroft," he called out, letting his voice break when he called his partner's name.  His still somewhat unsteady legs carried him through the short hallway to the living room.  He hung back in the doorway, leaning against the frame, letting pain and regret that he didn't feel dictate his entire posture.

"I am so, so sorry Mycroft, love.  I can't... I don't...   **Please**.  Please don't leave.  At least, not like this.  I'm so sorry I hurt you, I never meant to lose control like that.  I don't want this to be how things end between us.  I love you.  Please come back and we can at least talk about this?  I'll stay more than an arm's length away if you're still understandably frightened.  But please.  After two years, if we're going to break up please at least give me the chance to apologize to you properly for how immensely I just fucked up."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Mycroft grimaced at Greg's question about his arm, the DI's heart dropped slightly.  His answer caused it to sink further; three months without use of one arm was a hell of a long time.  Even longer if you considered that Mycroft Holmes was used to accomplishing in a day what it took most people a week to complete.  Or at least, that's how Greg imagined the politician worked.  It was a good guess, given that Sherlock had the same immense drive and dedication when he felt inspired.  Though Mycroft was likely more tempered in his approach, Greg had no doubts that the auburn haired man could achieve as much, if not more, than his unruly little brother.

That grimace quickly melted back into that charming smile, and Greg allowed himself a moment to bask in the warmth of it before he fully focused on the words that followed.  Words that he completely lost track of as Mycroft's lovely long-fingered hands slid his drink across the table with a languid grace, only to rise to the elegant line of the politician's throat to work another button free and expose another scant few millimeters of pale, freckled skin.  That sinfully graceful hand then dropped down, creating a lovely contrast against the leg of his dark trousers as Mycroft smoothed his palm over the length of his thigh before settling lightly in his lap.  Greg swallowed; a flush creeping across his skin that had nothing to do with the sun.  Jesus fucking christ.  It was beyond unfair that Mycroft could sit there, looking as good as he did, drawing attention to all of his best features while... wait.   **Wait**.  This was exceptionally familiar.  In fact, it was playing out almost exactly like the scene at the pub where he finally broke down and asked Mycroft if he was actually flirting with him.  The realization made the last stubborn tendrils of hesitation fade away. The worry and anticipation that he had been holding onto since he arrived seemed to leave him in an audible rush, and he sighed as he set his drink down before speaking.  Well, if he was wrong he was wrong.  But if he was right... well.  That would certainly be worth risking looking a fool.

"You're doing it again, aren't you?"  The question came out a bit breathier than Lestrade would have liked.  Hoping to take the tentative sounding edge out of his voice, he took another swallow of his drink before continuing, greeting Mycroft's elegantly arched auburn eyebrow with a toothy grin.  The DI hoped that his blush wasn't too terribly obvious thanks to the heat of the sun, but one wry look from Mycroft set notion to rest.  Oh well.  There were worse things in the world, far worse things, than having a very physical reaction when the most handsome man he'd ever seen was teasing him.  Greg gave Mycroft a knowing smirk before continuing.

"You're flirting with me, aren't you?  By undoing your buttons.  Yeah, I'm onto your moves Mycroft Holmes."  His grin broadened, and he raised one silvery eyebrow to playfully challenge Mycroft to refute his claim.  "So... is this the part where I flirt back, or go hide away in my room for a bit out of sheer embarrassment for misreading you?"

\---------------------------

The sense of relief when Mycroft realized Neil wasn't on his heels was ridiculous and made him more than a little dizzy. He was free, god, he was _free_ , Neil wasn't going to be able to stop him from leaving and he could finally be out of the older man's grasp, permanently this time. He'd won. That was the only way to put it, though he didn't feel particularly victorious at the moment, just terrified that at any moment Neil was going to come barreling after him and choke him to death in the middle of the living room floor. He finally reached the door, but paused with his hand on the doorknob as he heard Neil's broken voice.

No. No, no, no, _Mycroft, no!_ his brain insistently shouted at him, but he couldn't bring himself to turn the knob, listening carefully to the older man's words as well as the noises indicating that he had moved into the doorway of the living room. Lies. Lies, every single fucking word out of Neil's mouth was a lie, but Mycroft was so trained into making himself believe Neil's false promises that the words kept him frozen at the door, unable to turn the knob and unable to turn around to face Neil. Neil wasn't sorry in the slightest, and he'd told Mycroft numerous times that he lied every time he said he loved him. And the bit about staying an arm's length away was nearly laughable. That short of a distance wouldn't stop Neil in the slightest; he'd already proven that he was physically superior to Mycroft, and it would be all too easy for him to close that distance and become the monster Mycroft knew he was again.

But he couldn't move. Because just Neil's tone alone, nevermind his words, was making Mycroft feel unbelievably guilty about this. He had invested two years in this relationship, and leaving like this, running out the door, didn't seem like it was doing it justice. Then again, he had just had to physically assault his boyfriend in order to make it to this point. But Neil's voice... _Don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around_ \--and then he turned, keeping his hand on the doorknob, and he felt his heart break into a million pieces.

God, he knew that Neil was lying and manipulating him again, but it was so hard to believe that when he looked so sincere, so broken and distressed at the thought of Mycroft leaving without a proper catharsis. Mycroft felt something sharp scratching its way up his throat, tears starting to brim in his eyes. He shook his head at Neil, having some trouble getting his words out. "No, Neil, if you have anything to say you can say it from over there, and then I am out this door and gone, permanently."

~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, excellent, Greg was blushing again. Mycroft couldn't help but feel a little victorious at that; it seemed time had not diminished his effect on the other man. And, with his next words, the DI was calling Mycroft on his play, giving him a flirtatious grin back and asking him if this was his cue to respond in kind. Perfect, just perfect. Mycroft had carefully calculated his gestures, using them as a barometer of sorts to tell where Greg's level of interest lay after their time apart. Apparently it was just the same as before, and that thought made Mycroft feel exceedingly pleased.

Because Mycroft's feelings hadn't changed either. He still felt as attracted to Greg as he had at the pub, and besides that, there seemed to be a depth added to their interactions due to the unfortunate experience they'd gone through together and come out on the other side of. Greg had seen the truly awful side of Mycroft that Neil represented, had gotten a peek into the shattered parts of Mycroft's psyche, and he was still here. Still content to sit across a table and flirt with Mycroft and return to the easy air they'd once managed. It made Mycroft...well, hopeful.

Mycroft rested an elbow on the table, taking a sip of his drink before placing it back down again and turning a smile on Greg. "There's no need to hide in your room on my account. Once again, I must congratulate you on reading my intentions correctly, Gregory. It seems I can't truly hide my interest from you, but why would I wish to?" His voice slipped into another register, somewhere between diplomatic sweetness and a seductive purr. "Things are so much more interesting when you're here."

\---------------------------------------------

The warm feeling that unfurled through his chest at Mycroft's confirmation quickly dissolved into a rapid fluttering when the man's voice dropped into a dangerously sultry tone.  Greg's system gave over to enamored nervousness almost immediately.  An odd sort of anticipation built within him, making the tips of his fingers tingle and his senses all go on high alert.  It was as if that adrenaline spiked teenage-crush feeling that had been suppressed and forgotten over the length of their ordeal had come back tenfold, punishing the DI for pushing it to the back of his mind.  He'd even managed to quash those feelings for the week he stayed with Sherlock; the portions of his brain that weren't fully devoted to figuring out what the detective was doing were rather focused on whether or not Mycroft would even be interested in pursuing a friendship let alone anything more.  Given everything that the man had been through, Lestrade had fully expected that Mycroft's feelings would have cooled some; not necessarily returning to their formerly professional status, but sticking them somewhere comfortably in the middle of 'friends'.  Friends, and nothing more.  Evidently that worry was one Greg could put to bed, if the almost wicked gleam in the politician's stormy blue eyes was any indication of his mood.  The fact that Mycroft obviously still returned his interest was like pouring gasoline on an already raging fire.  Once the dampening effects of doubt had been lifted the crush he'd previously been harboring danced through Greg's system, setting every part of him alight.

"Right.  Well.  Ah, no running away for me, then."  Inwardly, he grimaced at the minced words.  Lestrade had never been a particularly eloquent man, he knew.  But there was just something about Mycroft and that... _suggestive_ tone of his that enhanced that trait, reducing the DI to barely above stammering.  When coupled with the positively evocative look on his face, it caused a simmering sort of heat to thrum through Greg's body.  A sweet sort of familiar ache started low in his belly, twinging a bit as the long lines of Mycroft's body were defined by his shift posture.  Hi elbow rested on the table, back bowed slightly as he leaned in to gather his glass and take another slow sip.

"Well, I suppose now's as good of a time to bring it up as any, seeing as how the cat's out of the bag and all that." Greg said with a smile.  "So I'll just go for it.  You, Mycroft Holmes, by virtue of our agreement, owe me one more date."  Even saying the words made him feel oddly giddy and lightheaded; almost as if something had sucked most of the oxygen out of the room.  Everything felt awash in a comfortable sort of surrealism; Mycroft's returned interest, the beautiful villa they were staying in, the warm Greek sun that poured down on them... It was almost like Greg was living someone else's life.  These kinds of things just **didn't** happen to him.  As suspicious as his immense turn of luck was, Greg made a conscious decision to pay it no mind.  He was **not** going to let his brain fuck this up for him.  Better to get lost in these two beautiful weeks and not overthink things.  Of course there was a chance that this was just going to be a vacation tryst.  Mycroft obviously wasn't going to have time for a relationship when he did get back to work, and well... even if he did, Greg wasn't exactly perfect partner material.  But for whatever reason, he was lucky to have captured the fascinating man's attention for now, and that was all that mattered.  Leveling the handsome politician with one of his own slightly suggestive smiles, he quirked a silvery brow, holding the man's gaze for just a moment before speaking.

"Ah.  I believe that drinks were what we had agreed on for terms, and you've thoughtfully provided those.  So.  Should I consider this our date, Mycroft?  And if so, what would you like to do?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The almost insubstantial tightening of Mycroft's voice let Neil know that his carefully crafted words had hit their mark.  For as much time as he spent telling the younger man that he was a cold, heartless creature it couldn't have been further from the truth.  The younger man's heart bled at the slightest emotional provocation.  It was one of the many qualities that made it so very easy for Neil to wrap Mycroft around his fingers.  

"Mycroft, I..." Neil gave a shuddering sigh, tightening his own voice to match the strain in Mycroft's.  "This is not ever how I wanted things to go between us.  I've been absolutely mad about you since the day we met, and well... perhaps mad turned out to be a better word to describe me than I ever thought.  If... if I had known, if I had even suspected for one single moment that any of the things I did hurt you badly enough to make you want to leave forever, I would have... I don't know.  I don't know what I would have done any more than I know what I'm going to do without you...but damnit if you had just given me the chance I would have tried, Mycroft!  I would have tried."  The lie was beautiful.  Neil didn't know that he'd ever been so convincing before in his entire life.  He felt his throat tighten and his breath hitch naturally because he had very nearly convinced **himself** that he believed what he was saying.  Finally lifting his green eyes from the floor, he fixed Mycroft with a pleading, forlorn stare.

"Instead, here you are.  Trying to leave without so much as a simple goodbye.  Two years, Mycroft.  Two years.  I'd thought it meant something.  If it does, or ever did, **please**.  Just.. before you go, please.  Tell me what it is I did, specifically, that made you not even talk about anything, just run away and disappear out of my life like a ghost?  Because the least you deserve from me, if I've been so horrible to you, is to let you go with a sincere and specific apology for my behavior."  Eyes that were already watery from the sting of the blow to his groin and the tears he tried to summon finally brimmed over, and a single tear slid down Neil's cheek.  Taking a cue from his body, he let himself slump against the door-frame; allowing himself to slide down until he was seated on the floor, giving the illusion that he couldn't hold himself up any longer.  The blonde let his head hang and his shoulders slump, adding to the brokenhearted effect of his posture as he waited for Mycroft's reply.

\----------------------------------------------------

Once again, Greg was positively charming when he was struggling to speak in full sentences but grinning back at Mycroft all the same as he finally managed to get out a few lovely sentences. Ah yes, their promised second date. Was it technically a second date if a shooting had interrupted the first? Well, whatever it was, Mycroft was absolutely delighted to be on it. After all, the look Greg was giving him was positively sinful, and there was more than a hint of suggestion in his voice when he asked Mycroft what he'd like to do. Images of Greg spread over the table instantly came to mind, but Mycroft quickly shoved them away again, his mind hardly the place for such improper thoughts. They were only on their second date, and Greg was nearly as chivalrous as Mycroft was. No, imagining Greg in compromising positions was certainly not the right thing to be doing at the moment.

Mycroft considered Greg's question for a moment, dragging his thumb across his bottom lip as he thought. It was an old flirting tactic, one he'd even used on Neil way back when in Uni, but it worked every time he did it and he saw no reason to stop subtly drawing attentions to certain aspects of his features. "Well, I do believe this could be considered to be a date, if you'd like it to be, Gregory," he said with an answering smile, his hand finally moving away from his face. "Since it is owed to you, it would be only fair for you to define the terms. Though you are correct, I have provided us both with drinks, and this is as good a time as any to have our date, isn't it?"

He paused a moment more, thinking about Greg's other question. What did he want? Well, a lot of things, really, in regards to Greg. He wanted to be able to sit across the table and flirt with him like this, he wanted to be able to feel those tempting lips on his again, he wanted to take him to bed. But he also wanted to be able to open up to him like he had at the pub. He wanted to regain an easy air of honesty between them, the deep trust that came with sharing intimate things with someone else. He wanted to hold onto Greg, and never let him go. No, the problem wasn't what he wanted; it was that he had no idea what Greg wanted. Sure, the DI returned his affections and sure, things seemed to be going well, but Mycroft knew all too well that that could end in a heartbeat. He didn't form attachments very quickly anymore, his heart too deeply guarded against them, but if he did form an attachment with someone, it was deep, and intense, and he put everything he had into it, every piece of his broken heart in the hope that maybe they'd have the glue to fix it.

So if he went all in with Greg, he went all in. The vacation was a test-drive, really; to see if he could trust Greg, open up to him slightly, perhaps have something with him that could extend beyond this time together. It would be hard to maintain if it did happen, because they were both so busy, and of course Mycroft was still terrified of scaring him off or accidentally hurting him or fucking up like he'd done with every other relationship he'd had since Neil, but it'd be worth it. So Mycroft took a steadying breath before smiling at Greg and saying, "Personally, I find your company enjoyable enough that I'd be quite content to sit here and talk the night away. As this is my apology date for you, however, I do believe it should be your choice what we do. Please, Gregory, don't hesitate to rule anything out." And, well, if he couldn't help layering his speech with honeyed suggestion, there really wasn't any harm from it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft had known that Neil wasn't going to let this be easy. But this...this wasn't even fighting dirty. This was just absolutely cheating, sheer manipulation, water works and lies and acting that could have won a fucking award. And he almost fell for it. Oh, Neil almost had him for a minute there, could have gotten him to go back over to him and apologize and promise to talk about this first, and then Neil would have had him permanently. Claws sunk in, chains relocked, his possession secured now and forever. But he made a fatal mistake; he'd brought up the ways he hurt Mycroft, and even dared to say that he had no idea how he'd done it. That it had been accidental.

An anger swelled up in Mycroft's chest, which, ironically, caused the first tears to spill. Oh, Neil must have thought he was so fucking clever. That he had him, that he could rewrap Mycroft around his finger by playing broken and confused. No, not today. "How you hurt me, Neil?" Mycroft asked, his tone bitter. He laughed slightly, though there was little humor in it. "Oh god, I actually believed you for a minute there. You know exactly how you hurt me. You lied to me, you manipulated me, you tore me apart and hid it all under a blanket of sweet affection before turning around again and telling me you lied whenever you said you loved me. You _used_ me, Neil, to mire yourself further in criminal activity, to assuage your boundless sadism, to get a good fuck."

"And you knew it, you knew every single wound you made and every injury you reopened, because it was all about control for you. You wanted me to fall apart at your feet so you could be responsible for rebuilding me. You systematically destroyed every one of my relationships with anyone outside you that you could, restricted my access to the relationships you couldn't destroy, and made sure I had no one to rely on but you, because heaven forbid I have any measure of control in my life. And you're attempting it again this very moment, by switching to false sincerity and emotional manipulation because I managed to escape from the physical threat you posed. No, I'm not going to listen to any more of this. I'm not going to let you do it this time, Neil, I'm not going to fold for the sake of your narcissism. You know why I wanted to leave like a ghost, without a word? Because I didn't want to have to suffer through this unnecessarily. Because I'm still leaving, Neil. And there's nothing you can do to stop me."

And without another word, without even another glance at the man that had stolen two years of his life, he left the flat, not slamming, but gently closing the door behind himself. He wiped away tears with his handkerchief as he went down the hallway, not quite running out of the building, but certainly walking quickly. There was still a chance that Neil would pursue him, try to change his mind, but the most the older man could do in public was try to manipulate him, and Mycroft was too tired to listen. Wrung-out, emotionally exhausted, and drained of any potential to care about this at the moment. There would be time for regrets and doubts and insecurities later. He could replay the scene a dozen times in his head, he could parse every word of every sentence, he could look for the other potential outcomes. For the moment, he was. Just. Done.

\--------------------------------

Neil watched in complete shock as Mycroft shook off the obviously distressing effect of his words and steeled himself.  The young man's face schooled itself from distracted, worried and regretful into a completely blank mask.  Though tears started to fall from his stormy blue eyes and bitterness tinged his brittle laugh, Mycroft's face remained completely impassive.  Once his initial surprise passed, something that almost felt like pride swelled in his chest, even as Mycroft's words fed the growing flames of his fury.

_I did this.  I took this beautiful, emotional, expressive creature and reduced him to ice, simply because it's what I told him that he was._ The thought rang through Neil's head, a surge of pride following even as Mycroft continued to tear him apart.  Well, not really tear him apart, exactly.  He didn't mind a single word that Mycroft was saying; they were all impressively true.  The only part that really bothered him was the fact that the younger man finally seemed to have caught on to Neil's play.  Even that bit of annoyance was almost mollified by the tired, almost apathetic underlying tone in Mycroft's voice.  When the younger man slipped out the door and retreated down the building's hallway Neil stood, shook himself slightly, and grinned as he sprawled across the couch.

Mycroft really was a work of art.  Neil had carved so many holes, ripped so many fissures in the other man's soul that Mycroft had become a beautiful latticework of emotional scar tissue.  That beautiful mind and fragile psyche were held together by equal parts feigned indifference, crippling insecurity, and an unyielding need for Neil's approval.  Which is why Neil didn't bother to run Mycroft down, chase after him and try to drag him back; Mycroft always managed to stretch his lead, but never managed to break it.  No matter how great the physical distance between them, Neil could always sit secure in knowing that a piece of him would always remain at the back of Mycroft's mind.

Oh, he could chase after Mycroft for sure, try to snap his restraints around the younger man's mind back to their proper place.  There wouldn't be much he could do in public, though.  And Mycroft, his Mycroft, was more than clever enough to be sure that he'd stay around large groups of people for as long as possible.  No, there was no sense in tracking the younger man down, only to have his reactions leashed by social constraints.  No.  It was best to wait here.  Because Mycroft was coming back.  Maybe not today, maybe not this week, maybe not even this month if the intensity of their row was any indication.  But eventually, he'd be back.  When school got too hard, or his social isolation became too great.  When the craving for Neil's touch became too much to bear.  Yes, Mycroft Holmes would undoubtedly be back.  Because Mycroft?  Well.  Mycroft always came back.

Always. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft agreeing that their current evening could count as a second date sent a thrill through Greg that had his heart fluttering again in an instant.  He almost tried to choke down the rather physical reactions to Mycroft's interest that followed, but he quickly let go, raking one hand through his short silver hair as a furious blush settled onto his cheeks and made itself quite at home.  There was no use in trying to hide his reactions; that tone the politician used had both his heart rate and his breathing increased to a point where Mycroft would undoubtedly notice.  Not to mention the warm fingers of desire that seemed to be everywhere at once; running over his skin, gently toying with the nerves in his abdomen, caressing his spine, twining themselves in the back of his brain.  Greg's lips burned as his brain immediately redirected itself to focusing entirely on Mycroft's mouth when the politician ran the pad of one thumb over the plushness of his lower lip.

The troublesome part of all that was the fact that Lestrade never, ever felt that way about someone unless he was in over his head, at least emotionally speaking.  His desire was tied in so deeply to his emotional response to someone that the two normally-separate thought processes may as well have been welded together in his brain.  The fact that he wanted Mycroft so badly merely supported Greg's suspicions that his crush was something much, much deeper than a fleeting interest.  Because while his body wanted (desperately) to satiate his curiosity when it came to the more carnal aspects of Mycroft's personality, it fully agreed with his heart when it throbbed with the desire to find out what being with Mycroft would be like on a completely non-sexual level.

He wanted to know what Mycroft looked like when he was sleeping. Not unconscious, but really sleeping.  How it would feel to wake up in the middle of the night to have the warmth of him pressed up against Greg's back.  What would he look like waking up in the morning; bleary eyed and in need of tea or sharp and ready to go from the moment his feet hit the floor? What would it feel like to be waiting for Mycroft to come back from some business meeting, to kiss him at the door and take away his briefcase?  To pull him over to the couch and sit him down, to press his hands into the firm muscles of his shoulder until he had worked free every little knot, every spot of tension? How would Mycroft react when Greg tried to get him to slow down, take some time for himself, blow off work for an evening and just curl up on the couch under a blanket, eating takeaway and watching crap telly?  Lestrade wanted those things just as badly, if not infinitely more so, than the feel of Mycroft against him.  It was greedy, he knew, but he couldn't help it.  When it came to the handsome politician, Greg wanted everything.  This moment, the next, and every single one after that.

Then Mycroft was speaking again, and Greg's brain immediately honed in on the tone of voice just as much as it did the words that the politician said.  Jesus.  It was obscenely unfair that Mycroft had to test his self control like that.  The fact that the man probably didn't know how difficult he was making things made the very physical reaction Lestrade had even harder to deal with, in a way.  But the rich suggestiveness in Mycroft's tone as he told Greg to not hesitate to consider all the options, or to rule anything out, caused a shudder to run down the full length of Greg's spine that surely gave his thoughts away.  And if the shudder didn't, the color that rose to his cheeks most certainly did.  Suddenly the DI's brain and body, both of which had been in agreement a few moments ago, were at war.  The implications that were layered within that suggestive comment were intoxicating, and part of Greg wanted nothing more than to pull Mycroft into a good, strong kiss and let things go from there.  His brain, however, was fixated on the words more than the evocative tone.  Lestrade's mind at least recognized fact that Mycroft handing over that much control to him was both startling and touching.  Especially after what the other man had so recently been through.  The extent to which Greg felt he wanted to take advantage of that trust, though, was chilling.  Here Mycroft was, suggesting that they talk for the rest of the evening and simply enjoy each other's company, while every single impulse in Greg's body screamed at him to jump across the table, stretch himself out over Mycroft's lap, and just fucking kiss him.

"Ah.  Well.  I..."  Shaking himself slightly from the physical and mental trance he had been in, Greg met Mycroft's stormy blue eyes with dazed chestnut brown, losing himself in the depths he found there for a few seconds.  Finally, Lestrade managed to snap fully back to the present, and answer his companion's question.  "Maybe a walk on the beach, perhaps?  Or around the manor grounds?  At least to start with.  And another drink," he said, downing the remains of his current glass in a single swallow.  "Yeah.  A walk and a drink sounds great to me, if that works for you."


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft and Greg take a walk on the beach, and Neil receives an unexpected visitor in prison.
> 
> Warnings: Eating disorders, references to emotional abuse and sadism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there everyone! Just wanted to drop in for a minute to apologize for the lack of chapters recently; both Mazi and I have been pretty busy lately and unable to upload, so this got left behind for a little while. Don't worry, though, it hasn't been abandoned in any way and we'll try and update it regularly again. However, since we've been busy and have had less time to write, the updates are going to be less frequent than they were at the beginning. We are definitely still sticking with this, though, and thank you to all of you who have stuck with us as well. <3 - Cheshire

The full body shudder that ran down Greg's spine when Mycroft stopped speaking was entirely unexpected and absolutely welcome. The DI seemed to be so thoroughly dazed that he couldn't even speak for a moment, his words seeming to fail him as soon as he locked eyes with Mycroft. God, perhaps he'd have to hold back on flirting for a bit, at least until Greg could look at him without losing the ability to speak. Though that was an entirely flattering and very encouraging reaction, it'd be unfair of him to take advantage of it to avoid staying on equal footing with Greg. He had to remind himself that for once, this wasn't  a battle of wits. It wouldn't hurt to relax a bit and let Greg take the lead. Though he'd have to keep an eye on the other man if he was going to continue downing drinks like that.

"Of course," Mycroft said, smiling smoothly. "May I propose the walk first, then the drinks? I don't typically make it my practice to drink while in motion. As for where we walk, the beach is rather beautiful at this time of day, so I believe we're better off walking there. Is that amenable to you?" At Greg's nod, he smiled again, slipping off his shoes and--god, this was killing him to be this undressed, even in a casual situation--his socks as well, not risking getting sand anywhere near his clothing if he could avoid it. He waited for Greg to do the same as he rose from his chair, casting an appraising glance over the ocean. It really was quite beautiful here; he was going to regret leaving.

The thought that bothered him more, though, was that he had two weeks alone with Greg. Which was great, yes, but it was also so much time to make mistakes in. He could easily ruin a relationship within five minutes, let alone days or weeks, and it would be such a shame to lose Greg after he'd gone through so much to keep him. After the DI had stayed by his side even through the natural disaster that was Neil Gibson, after he'd forgiven Mycroft for his relapse with said disaster, after he'd broken through several very important walls in Mycroft's head that had been there far too long. No, if he lost Greg, it wasn't going to be from a lack of effort to keep him on his part. If Greg left, then he would leave. But Mycroft wasn't about to encourage him.

He led the way down the steps to the beach once Greg was ready to follow, waiting for the other man before beginning to walk next to him in a direction that hadn't particularly been a conscious decision. God, did Greg look gorgeous in the sun. Mycroft was so very pleased that it was difficult for him to blush because otherwise it would have been his turn, caught by the sight of the rather fit DI next to him, relaxed in casual clothing. As if he belonged there. With Mycroft. God he was getting so sentimental. "I must admit," Mycroft started, to cover the fact that he had been staring a bit longer than was polite, "I have very much been looking forward to this date, Gregory. Though the end of the last one was...unfortunate, I did thoroughly enjoy myself."

\--------------------------

"Going for a walk first sounds fantastic."  Greg nodded his agreement as well; walking with a drink in hand sounded like a waste when there were several other things that he'd rather be holding instead.  Jesus.  Hands.  He meant _hands_.  Though any more inappropriate thoughts than 'hands' met their swift end as Mycroft wrinkled his nose and grimaced a bit as he peeled off his socks.  Lestrade had to bite back a chuckle, even though he knew it was entirely unfair.  It was just... well... **adorable** seeing the normally dapper politician so dressed down.  And if being in his shirtsleeves with his socks off made Mycroft feel just a tad unbalanced, well, then it just fell to Greg to make him feel better about it.  His own boots took a few seconds longer to get off, and by the time he was beach ready Mycroft had gone off ahead, just a bit.  When he caught up, Lestrade was pleased to see Mycroft waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs that led to the sunny, sandy beach path.  The sand was warm between his toes, the sun hot on his neck and shoulders, but the only heat Greg could really and truly feel was the one that seemed to radiate from Mycroft; a sort of gentle warmth radiated by his personality coupled with a much more acute heat brought on by the curve of his broad shoulder, the pale column of his neck, the sculpted line of his jaw.

They wandered off together in no particular direction along the beautiful strip of surf and sand; falling into an easy, rhythmic stride as they walked side by side.  They walked along in comfortable silence for a few moments, and Greg took the opportunity to bask in the rarity of it.  There were so few people that could enjoy a simple, quiet moment.  Most everyone Greg knew felt the need to fill spaces in conversation, as if the easy lapses in dialogue were something to be avoided at all costs.  Lestrade, on the other hand, enjoyed the rather natural breaks.  They allowed him to collect his thoughts, sort things out in his head.  The fact that Mycroft seemed comfortable doing the same was just another indicator of how well suited they were to each other, or at least Greg hoped that was what it meant.  The silence lasted exactly the right amount of time before Mycroft started speaking again; his tone fond as he confessed his anticipation of their second date, and his enjoyment of their rather ill-fated first outing.  Greg smiled and nodded; the sentiment was certainly true for him as well.  

"You know, I really enjoyed our first date too. Funny, it feels like it was so long ago.  And not necessarily in a bad way either.  I mean, its not like..  What I mean is I know it wasn't easy getting there, but...  I... It's to say that...  Well."  Greg gave a little irritated huff, frustrated with his brain for not being able to articulate exactly what it was that he was thinking.  Fortunately, Mycroft was patient, allowing the DI the handful of moments he needed to weave together a coherent, unbroken sentence.  "With everything that we went through over the last few weeks, I feel like I know you; I mean **really** know you.  We sort of went from zero to sixty in terms of what we know about each other.  How we got there wasn't the easiest of paths but I have to say that, as a silver lining, feeling like I know the actual Mycroft Holmes is... well.  It's lovely."   Greg gave Mycroft an appreciative smile, hoping that his face could convey the sheer amount of gratitude and happiness that he was feeling because certainly his brain wasn't having any luck putting it into words.  On a whim, he captured Mycroft's hand in his own, twining their fingers together as they continued to walk along the beach.  The conversation, while necessary, wasn't going to be easy on the politician and Lestrade wanted to offer him a sort of anchor.  Something to hold onto so he didn't drift off into the darker places in his mind.

"Though it does sort of mean we skipped right over that 'getting to know each other' phase that most relationships go through.  Or rather, ours happened under circumstances outside our control.  Under extreme duress, in some cases.  But, well... here we are.  In Greece, together on a holiday, walking on a beach, having our second date.  It's all moved at such a rapid pace that I don't know that either of us have really gotten a chance to... get our footing back, at least with each other."  He let his hand give a reassuring squeeze to the aristocratic fingers interlaced with his own.  "Really, my major regret about the entire process being rushed is that I didn't get enough chances to tell you how fantastic I think you are.  Because you are, you know.  Fantastic.  Absolutely bloody fantastic."

\-------------------------------------

As soon as Greg started talking about how well he'd gotten to know Mycroft--the real Mycroft, under the surface of all the ice--something pulled itself tight in Mycroft's chest, a tension that eased itself again when he realized Greg thought it was a good thing. Greg wasn't pulling away, wasn't tearing him apart for his flaws, wasn't cataloging how to use them against him. In fact, he was smiling warmly and taking Mycroft's hand in his own as they walked, the point of contact a good contrast to the conversation at hand. He could focus on the warmth of Greg's hand, the feel of the DI's skin against his own, the way their fingers fit together. Focusing on sensation had always managed to quiet the storm of his mind, giving him something to distract himself from the thoughts that battered his weary consciousness.

Which allowed him to really pay attention to words, his mind picking out the subtle word choices that seemed unconscious. Mainly 'relationship'. It was an unconscious slip on Greg's part, he could tell that--Greg, wonderfully enough, had nearly no artifice in his speech, unlike Mycroft, who parsed every word out before he even opened his mouth--and it didn't mean too much on the surface, but to Mycroft, it was an excellent sign. A nod to the long term, and an unconscious one at that. God, when Neil did that, it had always been on purpose to reel Mycroft in--Mycroft shut that train of thought down as soon as it started, feeling a little sick, as he always did when he thought of Neil. The last thing he wanted was to start thinking about Neil while with Greg, no, this was the one thing Neil hadn't managed to ruin and he wasn't about to let him now.

That was easier to manage when Greg was saying such lovely things, a delicate blush appearing on Mycroft's cheeks. It appeared that even as a grown man he couldn't quite get away from his reactions to any form of affection; though, to be fair, the number of times he was actually exposed to it in his normal life were few and far between. Work was his life, and with little outside of that he'd had so much trouble forming relationships, and even then, he was far too closed off and wary of any form of affection being used as a means to gain something else that he didn't really respond to it. But Greg...Greg brought out the reactions that lay underneath layer upon layer of insecurities and defense mechanisms, cutting right through them and straight to the core of Mycroft Holmes, the only part of him that even vaguely resembled the Uni student from so long ago.

"You would make an excellent diplomat, if you could charm everyone like that, Gregory," Mycroft said with an amiable smile at the other man, the blush at least beginning fade. It wouldn't do for the DI to know how much a little affection would affect him--not that he thought the other man would use it against him or anything, but he didn't exactly have a lot of past experiences to back that up. "But thank you. I will admit that extending the introductory phase of our relationship would have allowed me to more properly express the way I view you. 'Fantastic' isn't a word that frequents my vocabulary, so I would have to say something closer to 'marvelous' or 'superb'. Though sensational would apply as well, I believe."

\---------------------------------------

"You know, just when I think you can't possibly look more gorgeous than you already do, you have to go and blush like that.  I have the feeling that with you, I'm going to have to keep reassessing my notions about the height of attractiveness all the bloody time.  I mean, look at you.  Is there anything you can't wear and look absolutely bloody stunning?"  Greg couldn't help but smile as the lightest of blushes crept up Mycroft's throat, escalating until it came to a rosy crest across his refined cheekbones.  That was comforting, to know that he wasn't the only one that was prone to fits of schoolyard level displays of appreciation.  It simply served to further drive home Lestrade's point, though.  Given the manipulation and cruelty the politician had suffered at Neil's hands, the fact that he could accept Greg's compliment was a testament to the strength of his spirit.  That he was even willing to give Greg a chance at all, to let Lestrade (damaged as he was on his own) be the one to carefully try to piece back together the fragments of his badly-wounded heart, it was almost too much for the DI to comprehend for a moment.  Then Mycroft was complimenting him, using words that Greg never would have ascribed to himself, and everything went a bit turvy.  He felt a bit dizzy and the world around him looked sort of whitewashed and out of place, almost as if he found himself in some sort of dream transposed over reality.  He clung a little harder to Mycroft's hand than he meant to, but the firm feeling of those aristocratic fingers twined with his own rough digits helped steady him and remind him that this was indeed reality.  A wonderful, amazing reality that he was uncertain how he had ended up in, but real all the same.

"And, the only diplomat I'm interested in charming is you."  It was a wonder Greg didn't stammer out the words, but there was something so soothing about Mycroft's hand in his that it just drained away the nervous edge to his excitement.  It was like the handsome auburn haired man acted as a grounding agent; draining away the worst of his anxieties about their situation until only a warm sort of contentment remained.  Greg shifted his grip slightly so he could run his thumb across the back of Mycroft's hand in soft, slow sweeps.  The creamy white skin felt so soft under the pad of his thumb, and his brain decided to take a left turn and start to imagine what that lovely freckled smattered skin would feel like in _other_ places.  

Fortunately he caught that line of thought before it carried him away from the perfectly enjoyable time that he was having at the moment, and Greg shoved it roughly to the back of his mind.  Good lord.  Not for the first time in his life, Lestrade wished that his libido had an off switch.  Or at least some sort of volume knob, so he could turn it down, make it go from screaming inside his head to a consistent background noise.  Because when Mycroft smiled like that, with the slight sea breeze toying with his open collar, the sight made it very difficult for the DI retain his train of thought.  Unable to pick up the thread of whatever he was thinking or saying, he decided to try and thwart his baser instincts and plan out a completely chaste activity for the evening.

But that was the trouble, wasn't it?  He hadn't dated in... well... since Uni.  And while those early dates with Janice were phenomenal and exciting, it didn't really apply to the current situation with Mycroft.  After all, what worked well for the young and reckless ended up looking ridiculous once you added a few years of age to the perpetrators.  And really, Mycroft probably wouldn’t be up for skinny dipping anyway.  Nor was that exactly the relatively platonic sort of activity he was looking for.  Simple date stuff was right out too; coffee or dinner seemed stupidly impersonal at this point, and they'd be sharing their meals anyway since they were sharing living space for the time being.  Mutual interests?  Sherlock was one of the biggest things they had in common and neither of them wanted to discuss the younger Holmes, even if he was doing better than expected after the whole ordeal.  Finally something clicked in place, and Greg knew his face lit up with a stupidly large smile but he couldn't help it.

"If we're going to have an evening in, which sounds wonderful by the way, we should pick a couple movies to watch.  Maybe I can pick out an old noir standard for us to enjoy, and you can introduce me to some fantastic swing era musical?"  The idea of just sort of snuggling up on a couch together and laughing about old cinema and enjoying a few cocktails sounded fantastic, at least to him.  Hopefully it would sound just as excellent to Mycroft as well.

\-----------------------------------

_"And, the only diplomat I'm interested in charming is you."_

Oh, why did Greg have to say such things when Mycroft was already having difficulty keeping the blush off his face? It was impossible for him not to smile around the other man, though there really was no need to try and hide his reactions to Greg's words. He supposed it was a learned behavior; if he didn't show reactions to anything, people couldn't use them against him. At one point in time he'd been extremely expressive, emotions playing out across his features for everyone to see. And then Neil had used it against him, and Mycroft had decided that wrapping protective, impassive walls around his emotions was a much better idea. But that was the point now, wasn't it? To let Greg see what lay beneath the surface instead of shutting him out again? Sure, he could switch back into cold and impassive at a moment's notice, but they'd already proven once before that that wasn't a façade he could easily keep up with Greg. Which was a good thing, right?

Mycroft was distracted from trying to fight down his blush by the positively delighted grin that broke out over Greg's face, the DI turning to outline an idea for their evening activities. Mycroft found himself smiling back instantly, completely taken by the idea. It was perfect, in fact; a chance for them both to share something they loved with each other, based on the previous conversations they'd had on the subject. It would be just personal enough, considering how much they knew about each other already, and would allow them to have easy conversation in a setting that was close, personal, but not too intimate. So, all around a perfect idea for the evening. Curling up next to Greg and watching the ever expressive DI when they were sharing their tastes sounded wonderful.

"I think that sounds like a delightful idea," Mycroft said with his most charming smile aimed at the DI. He felt like a giddy teenager again, which really meant he blushed and sought affection much more than usual, and Greg seemed more than happy to keep providing it. At least being on the couch together meant he could get physically closer to the DI in a non-sexual way, even if that just meant subtly shifting closer to him on the couch. "I would thoroughly enjoy seeing a noir film of your choosing, though I might have some difficulty choosing one swing musical to watch when there are so many to choose from." He paused for a moment, his smile growing unconsciously. "Yes, I think a few drinks, some pleasant company, and some excellent films sound like an excellent evening in the making."

\------------------------------------

Mycroft practically beamed at his suggestion, and Greg found himself both unable and unwilling to suppress his answering smile.  The easy look of enjoyment that crossed the politician's face made Lestrade feel better than he had in... well... in years.  There was something so satisfying about being able to bring a smile to the normally reserved politician's face that had the warm humming in his chest spreading even further.  Good god, he was being such a complete sap.  But a quick glance at Mycroft's all too charming smile confirmed that, at least in this one case, Greg didn't mind.  In fact, he couldn't get enough of it.  Lestrade had always had a romantic streak a mile wide, but that tendency had been bridged over by necessary distractions of life and eventually, the less than necessary attitudes of one certain ex-wife.  It appeared that Mycroft just seemed to effortlessly rekindle that tendency, however long it had laid dormant.  Walks on the beach holding hands, planning out a movie-based date night; their choice of activities made the whole thing feel like some sort of old-timey courtship rather than two grown men sharing a vacation villa together.  It couldn't be helped, though.  Any attention from Mycroft caused Greg to blush and stammer like a teenager, each reaction making it obvious that the DI was entirely unused to flirting.  The attention that Mycroft showered on him was absolutely addictive, honestly.  How long had it been since Greg felt so... enjoyed?  Appreciated?  It didn't even merit measuring; it had been long enough that the gift of each warm smile from Mycroft knocked him a bit dizzy, and he had to take a moment to collect himself before resuming their conversation.

"I know exactly what you mean; I don't know what my pick would be either."  The DI nodded his agreement when Mycroft spoke on the difficulty he expected to have when trying to narrow down his choice of films.  "There are so many good choices.  Hmm.  I think my top three picks, off the top of my head, would be Key Largo, Notorious, or Gilda.  Are any of those particularly interesting to you?  And don't worry," he added, brown eyes sparkling.  "You just have to figure out which musical you want to start with.  I'm sure that you'll have plenty of other opportunities to show me the rest of your favorites."  

Lestrade stopped walking, using his hold on Mycroft's hand to sort of tether the man in one place.  As he turned towards Greg, those stormy blue eyes were just swimming with all sorts of subtle emotions that Greg couldn't quite read, but the overall effect was that the politician looked absolutely ravishing.  The slightest hints of a blush still graced the arches of his cheekbones, the sun in his hair really highlighting the auburn tones, and oh... that smile.  It was that damned (wonderful) smile that finally cracked the surface of Lestrade's reserve; that lovely (treacherous) smile that convinced him that yes, it would be okay to indulge himself a little.  Once. Unable to help himself Greg gently tugged Mycroft towards him, so that they were standing mere millimeters apart.  The politician was just a hair taller than he was, which put Greg's eyes right at the level of Mycroft's mouth, causing his heart to flutter in a way that was decidedly more carnal that romantic.

"Yeah, there'll be plenty of time for musicals are in our future.  I plan on being around for awhile, you know."  Before the politician could respond, Greg leaned in and placed a light, sweet kiss on his lips.  God, that firm mouth felt even better than he remembered.  The warmth of Mycroft against him coupled with the heat of the sun behind him warmed Lestrade to his very core.  He gave Mycroft another soft, short peck on the lips before pulling back.  Greg hoped that the stupidly huge smile of enjoyment on his face was enough to hide the slight hints of worry that he felt.  After all, Greg had planned to let Mycroft make the first move towards any sort of physicality.  The other man probably needed to pursue things on his terms in order to feel comfortable, given everything that he had gone through with that wretched bastard Neil.  It had never been his intention to let his self control lapse, but the moment was just too perfect and Greg needed to do something, anything to show the other man a fraction of the affection that he felt swelling in his chest.  He gave Mycroft an apologetic smile and took a moment to once again gather his thoughts before continuing to speak.

\------------------------

Sherlock made absolutely certain that up until the moment he walked through the doors, Neil Gibson thought Mycroft was coming to see him. It wasn't difficult, honestly; Sherlock had impersonated his brother so many times before that there was a specific notice that went out to the elder Holmes whenever it happened. In this case, Sherlock knew Anthea would make sure that Mycroft never knew about the impersonation because he wouldn't know about the visit period. He and Greg were on vacation together--a thought that made Sherlock shudder internally--and the last thing he needed to hear was that his brother had gone off to taunt the psychotic ex boyfriend stuck behind bars. He didn't need to hear any mention of anything to do with Neil Gibson ever again. Besides, Anthea wanted Sherlock to go just as badly as he wanted to go himself. She didn't have to even say it; it was obvious when she received the alert that Mycroft was set to visit Neil and realized it was actually Sherlock through text. Her only caveat was not to tell Mycroft. As if.

So Neil must have been feeling pretty good about himself, sitting in the visitor's room and waiting for Mycroft to come crawling back like he had before, when instead Sherlock breezed through the doors, his long coat flaring dramatically behind him as he went to sit down across from Neil, smirking at the expression on the other man's face. "Hello, Neil," he said in his very best baritone, the self-satisfied one that never failed to aggravate the members of the Yard. "In case you're wondering, no, Mycroft isn't waiting in the wings to come in and see you again. He's not coming at all, and he never was. No, he's on vacation, I'm afraid, with Detective Inspector Lestrade. It seems they mixed up which Holmes was going to visit. Because I'm afraid that Mycroft is never coming to visit you, now or anytime in the future. I believe his exact words were 'If I ever see that man again, it will be the last meeting he ever attends'." He smiled cruelly. "Now isn't that interesting."

\------------------------

"I leave the choice of our noir film entirely in your capable hands," Mycroft said with another smile at Greg to answer the DI's question. "Anything you select is bound to be excellent." And then Greg was making another reference to the long term, though this one was purposeful, judging from the gleam in the DI's eyes as he said it. Lovely, Greg was so lovely all around, and Mycroft had the feeling that he was going to have to get used to this swelling in his chest, this easy flowing affection that poured forth from him naturally around Greg. He knew that he was positively basking in the attention from the other man, but Greg appeared to be doing the same, and the flirting atmosphere was definitely mutual, without a question.

Suddenly Greg was stopping in their walk, pulling Mycroft to a stop as well in a way that turned the politician to face him. Mycroft's heart sped up in his chest of its own accord, his brain picking up on Greg's intentions before the DI pulled him into a kiss after another reference to the long term that Mycroft wanted so desperately. Oh, he'd forgotten how good kissing Greg was. How perfectly the DI's mouth fit against his own, how sweet and pleasant it was to have Greg's chest pressed against his own, their bodies fitted against each other. Then the DI placed another kiss on his lips, short and gentle, before pulling away and saying the most endearing (adorable) words that Mycroft had ever heard.

"Gregory," he said, winding one arm around Greg's waist to pull the DI closer, "if that's the case then I will be certain to keep feeding you affection." And he moved his hand to cup Greg's cheek, and leaned in close to kiss him again. He'd intended to keep it as sweet as Greg's was, but it turned out a little firmer than he'd meant it to, something more than affection stirring in his abdomen. He gently ran his tongue along Greg's bottom lip, gently teasing it open, and then pulled away, his actions caught somewhere between those of a gentleman and a tease.

He smiled at the slightly dazed expression on Greg's face, his hand sliding back to the small of Greg's back, then to his hip, before it moved to take Greg's, bringing it to his lips to plant a soft kiss on his knuckles. "I don't intend to let you go for a very long time."

\------------------------

Before Greg could pull back out of the entirely unplanned embrace he was sharing with Mycroft, the man wrapped his good arm around his waist and tugged him just a bit closer.  It was all Lestrade could do to stay standing; the feeling of being flush with the handsome politician was enough to steal any breath he had left after the kisses that they had shared moments earlier.  Then Mycroft's hand traveled from his waist to the side of his face, and the DI had just a second to breathe before those fantastic lips were pressed against his once more.  The slightly taller man's kiss was firmer and more insistent than Greg's; the DI instinctively melted into the man's touch.  God, it was fucking perfect.  The entire ocean could have flooded in around them at that moment, and Greg would never have noticed.  His entire world had narrowed to the feel of Mycroft's tongue working itself gently against his lower lip.  The warm, wet touch was enough to cause a sort of exquisite tension to course through him; a tightness traveling from his heart to low in his groin as Mycroft encouraged him to open his mouth, though it wasn't like the DI was offering him all that much resistance.  

It was all Greg could do to bite back a moan when the politician pulled away, the kiss being both more and less satisfactory that Greg had been hoping for.  Less satisfactory because oh, how he wanted to feel that tongue pressed up against his, to memorize every one of the surfaces in Mycroft's mouth, to drink in the taste of him until it was permanently seared into his brain.  More satisfactory simply due the fact that he'd had no idea that Mycroft could kiss like **that** , let alone that he was interested in kissing Greg like that, of all people.  Mycroft's attraction to him was still somewhat of a mystery, but this was definitely one gift that Greg did not plan on taking for granted. Or even questioning, at least not yet.  He was going to enjoy these two weeks without tormenting himself with thoughts of what the future held.  He deserved it, even if it was likely just a lovely, sweet illusion.  And Mycroft deserved nothing less than his full attention.  Not like Greg would have to worry about that much; if the handsome politician kept kissing him like that Lestrade was worried he might not be able to focus on anything **but** Mycroft.  That evidently included essential things like breathing and blinking.  His head spun and every nerve in his body sang; everything feeling a little fuzzy at the edges which was likely from the lack of oxygen in his system.  Well, that was easily enough righted, and Greg finally started to breath again as Mycroft pulled back to gaze at him with those amazing stormy blue eyes of his.

Then that elegant hand traveled from the side of his face back to the small of his back and any sense Greg had of where he was, what he was doing, certainly what he was going to say... it all left him in a breathless rush.  Those long fingers brushed gently up against his hip, causing Lestrade's already rapid heartbeat to increase.  The things that man could do with the simplest of touches; Greg wasn't sure if he was grateful or a bit jealous that Mycroft seemed to be able to sweep him completely away with such understated, almost-chaste contact.  Fortunately for them both, the cunning politician pulled back before he eroded what little remained of Greg's self control; easing him back into reality by capturing his hand and pressing a light kiss against his knuckles.  Once the warm buzzing in his head passed as his body came back down from the high of Mycroft's touches, he was finally able to process the man's words.  The first comment gave him reason to chuckle, though and he leaned his forehead on the politician's shoulder until the small fit of laughing had passed.  

"Oh.  Ha.  Well, I meant that if you fed me as in 'food' that you'd have a hard time getting rid of me.  But  - ah, well..." Greg stammered a bit, stunned and adrift in the flood of unexpected attention from Mycroft.  With a bit of a struggle, he managed to wrangle the words he had been looking for and continued.  "Yeah.  Not complaining.  In fact, I'm the furthest I've ever been from complaining in my whole life.  If you want to keep feeding me this sort of affection I'd probably never complain about anything ever again."  Of course his body would pick that moment to disagree with him; a sort of burning starting in his injured side that had absolutely nothing to do with his proximity to the ever-elegant, intoxicating politician at his side.

"I, ah, well.  I hate to be a bit of a buzzkill, but we should probably head back to the villa before too much longer.  I'm doing better but I'm not quite up to full form yet.  I don't want to get so far out that I'll have a hard time getting back."

~~~~~~~~~~~

It had taken Mycroft a full two weeks longer to arrange a visit than Neil had expected.  Obviously that annoying PA of his had defied the criminal's expectations and shipped the man off somewhere out of country despite his rather taxed physical condition.  Ha.  A lot of good that ended up doing him.  Once back in the UK this had undoubtedly been Mycroft's first order of business; running to Neil to soothe the ever-widening chasm that the man tore into his heart.  Playing as if he didn't want Mycroft anymore after their little tryst had been a most excellent move; forcing the politician to show his hand and come back to Neil and ask (and eventually beg) for what Neil had once been willing to give for free.  Gibson spent the entire morning before the meeting toying with all the different images of how Mycroft would look upon his return.  Would it be the emaciated, distraught Mycroft from their Uni days?  Or would he have managed to rebuild his cool exterior persona somewhat; desperately trying to prove that having control over his weight and outward emotions passed for having any semblance of control over his life?  There were numerous possibilities, each positively delicious in their implications.

In the end, it ended up being none of his considered options. The minute the door pushed open Neil knew that it wasn't the elder Holmes brother that had come to visit him.  The sheer force with which the man's entrance was heralded was far too unsubtle to be Mycroft.  A dramatic whirl of dark coat and black curls revealed the true identity of his visitor.  Ah. The younger Holmes.  Now that was a surprise.  Sherlock launched right into an acerbic tirade, obviously meant to goad Neil into having some sort of reaction.  Though his temper was beginning to flare, a dull roar starting low in his chest alerting him to his mounting ire, he schooled his face into an amused grin and settled back in his chair as if he was lounging in his office rather than in some visitors room in a prison.  

"Well, if it isn't the littlest Holmes brother.  Sherlock, isn't it?  I've heard so much about you from your brother, really."  Neil was careful to keep his tone well within the realm of icy congeniality, making sure that none of his anger seeped through his mask.  After all, it wouldn't do to let either Mycroft or Sherlock know just how impatient he was really feeling.  Jail was becoming tedious.  The sooner Mycroft broke down and released him, the better.  But if either Holmes brother had an inkling of how eager he was to get back to his normal life, Mycroft would probably delay the process simply out of spite.  Hell, that was probably the reason that Mycroft sent his brother in the first place, instead of simply coming himself.  To draw the whole process out as long as possible.  With a cold, cutting smile, Neil turned his emerald green eyes on Sherlock and gave the younger man an appraising look.  On one hand, he wasn't Mycroft.  On the other hand, he was here and willing to play... and Neil never declined the opportunity to put on a show.

"Tell me, are you still insisting on breaking your poor brother's heart by being a full time addict and a part time whore, or have you found something even worse to do to yourself to torment him?"

\----------------------------

It was an honest surprise when Greg started chuckling, putting his head to Mycroft's shoulder as he explained the other man's misconception as to the meaning of his words. He smiled at Greg's reaction to what he was sure was an unexpected kiss, the DI seeming more than a little bit off balance as a result but also thoroughly pleased. Then, of course, the real world interfered as Greg confessed that they should head back before his own injuries made it too difficult to make it back with any ease. He squeezed Greg's hand briefly before pulling back slightly from the DI, linking his fingers with Greg's once again. "You're right; as lovely as this had been, I don't think it's quite worth bodily injury," he said with a smile. "Besides, I do believe I made a promise concerning drinks and a few films?"

Which was still a perfect plan and Mycroft was rather looking forward to it. There was no actual regret present in leaving the beach aside from the fact that it would be a little while before he had a chance to kiss Greg like that again, but that could very quickly be rectified on a couch in the dark with the two of them close together. Not that Mycroft really intended to be so forward ahead of time, but considering the level of chivalry Greg was displaying, it might be necessary. Detective Inspector Lestrade. His chivalrous white knight. Yes, that sounded just about perfect.

He gently tugged on Greg's hand to start leading him back down the path towards the villa, making sure to walk side by side with him so he could fully appreciate the man next to him. And oh, there was so very much to appreciate. The DI was amazing in a way that radiated out from his very core until it was visible to those around him, an aura of absolute loveliness that Mycroft could almost feel. It was a warmth, a glow that Mycroft could sun himself in as much as he liked. It was altogether unbelievable, that he had this time with Greg; no interruptions, no distractions, just good, honest time.

"I'm afraid that I've entirely neglected to ask; when was the last time you've eaten? If you want anything, I'd be more than happy to accommodate you. I do believe that dinner and a movie is how these things are traditionally done, but I'd be more than happy to settle for films and cocktails."

~~~~~~~~~~

Neil's comment washed over Sherlock like a wave continuing in its path to break somewhere in the distance. Of course, Neil had instantly gone for the two key points that usually caused the most damage, bringing up Sherlock's relationship with Mycroft in an effort to goad the younger man into some sort of emotional reaction. Dull. Evidently Neil assumed that Sherlock was the same as his brother; cold on the surface, easy to cut on the inside. Even if that were true, Sherlock didn't have the same lengthy personal experience with Neil that Mycroft did that made his barbs so very effective. Neil had played a key role in shaping Mycroft's personality; he'd had absolutely nothing to do with Sherlock's.

His eyes flicked over Neil's form, taking in the few details the standard prison jumpsuit and accoutrements provided him. No, Neil's clothing had no information to offer him, but Neil's body language certainly did. The blonde was doing his very best to mask his emotions, hiding behind the mask of a cruel smile that Sherlock was sure was his usual affectation, but his body betrayed him. His anger was present in the tensed line of his shoulders, in the way he clenched and unclenched his hands, just once, as he spoke. Neil was impatient, and angry, and still thoroughly convinced that Mycroft was going to save him and fall back into the same old traps. Perfect.

"Oh," Sherlock said, leaning back in his seat as if he'd had a sudden revelation. "You still think he's coming to get you out." His lips twisted up into a smile. "Now isn't that a little presumptuous of you? After he attempted suicide to get away from you, I thought you would have taken the hint. Maybe this will clear a few things up." He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, flicking through it for a minute before turning it so Neil could see the screen. The picture on the screen was one that Anthea had helpfully supplied, though he assumed she'd taken it without Mycroft's knowledge using on of the many members of his security team. It showed Mycroft, leaning against the railing of a patio, the clean, slim lines of his silhouette accentuated by his posture. The Greek sun made him look positively radiant, glowing with health, and the most important part was that he looked genuinely happy. Easy, at peace, no artifice in his expression whatsoever. And all of this without Neil.

"Oh, and I nearly forgot." He slid over one photo before showing Neil the phone again. The photo on the screen nearly made Sherlock want to start banging his head against the wall, but it was important for this meeting; Mycroft, on a beach, with his hand cupping Greg's face as he kissed the DI in a way that seemed slightly less than chaste. "This was taken today. Interesting, that he's on a vacation with another man if he's planning on coming back to you."

\---------------------------------------------

When Mycroft pulled back a bit so that they could start walking back to the villa Greg had to bite back a mournful little sigh.  God, it was too easy to get used to the feeling of Mycroft pressed up close against him.  In that way, it probably was best that they got a little space.  Space and time.  The DI repeated it in his overactive mind like a mantra any time delicious but inappropriate thoughts popped into his head.  Like what that kiss would have felt like with nothing but skin between them, stretched out on whatever luxurious sort of bed the politician was bound to have and .... Space and time.  Mycroft needed to have both.  The last thing Greg wanted to do was make the poor man deal with his overly amorous attentions during what was supposed to be his time for recovery.  No, damnit.  He was going to let Mycroft take all the time he needed in progressing their relationship, even if Lestrade knew it meant several cold showers in his future.

Greg almost gave another sigh, this one of relief, when Mycroft easily agreed that heading back to the villa was a good idea.  It wasn't so much that he thought that the man would protest and try to keep going, but the lack of any regret or resistance in his eyes and tone were both soothing to the DI.  He was so very used to having to fight for the smallest of concessions - with his team, with Sherlock, formerly with Janice - that something as simple as an uncomplicated agreement was delightful.  As they started to head back towards the villa (the thought of which still took the DI's breath away) Mycroft twined his long, elegant fingers back together with Greg's shorter, rougher digits.  Like everything else about the pair, their hands seemed to be a study in contrasts while still fitting together perfectly.  

After a few moments of walking in that lovely companionable silence again, the politician brought up the prospect of adding dinner to their date's list of activities.  A pang ran through the DI's midsection that had nothing to do with his previous injury.  Fuck, he was hungry.  When had that happened?  Maybe that was why he was feeling so funny and lightheaded; that coupled with the speed at which he downed his drink would explain quite a bit of his fuzzyheadedness.  Or he could simply be drunk on Mycroft.  That was also equally possible.  Either way, Greg had been too wrapped up in his spiral of excitement and worry to even think about eating on the plane, and Mycroft's gentle prompting reminded him that yes, food was indeed necessary.

"Dinner sounds absolutely wonderful, actually."  Greg gave his companion a bit of an abashed grin and complimented it with a shrug.  "I'm not quite Sherlock level bad about it, but I have to admit that I do forget to eat more often than I should."   _And I had other things on my mind at the time, like seeing you again, or using my mouth for things much more enjoyable than simply eating_ , his mind added unhelpfully.  "Ah - Do you fancy going out somewhere, or would you prefer to eat in?  I'm not a great cook but I bet I could work out something at least edible for us both.  That is, if the kitchen's been relatively well stocked."

\----------------------

Sherlock's lack of reaction to Neil's barbs caused the blonde to raise one eyebrow in a combination of respect and surprise.  Well, it appeared that at least with this Holmes the icy exterior was a bit more than skin deep.  Or perhaps it was more that his connection with Sherlock was much less personal than his relationship with Mycroft.  All Neil was at this point was another person slinging venom at a man who looked very accustomed to receiving it.  Still, there was one crack in his cold facade, and that was the fact that he was even visiting Neil at all.  Mycroft.  If there was going to be a flaw in his armor for Neil to slide a stiletto in, that would be it.

The extent to which the younger brother cared for the elder was painfully obvious when he resorted to pulling out a few photos on his cell phone as proof of Mycroft's welbeing in the face of Neil's absence.  It also proved how painfully little the other man actually knew about his brother.  Of course Mycroft looked good leaning up against that railing.  He was recovering, after all.  And Mycroft Holmes was a man who knew how to play his captors.  Neil had first hand experience with that, after all.  Any semblance of health was more than likely token gestures made to get him one step further to release, which meant coming back to Neil.

The second picture was more troubling.  He'd known that the second attempt on Lestrade's life had failed; proving yet again that Mycroft's current PA would have to be dealt with upon the politician's return.  A tight sort of anger coiled itself along the length of his spine and caused the edges of his vision to blur the slightest bit with a red film before he was able to fight the reaction down.  And fight it down he did, pushing the emotion as far away as he could before returning to his conversation with Sherlock.

"Do you really think that means anything?"  Neil couldn't help but scoff as he gestured dismissively to the picture of Mycroft on the balcony.  Damned if the man didn't look good.  But Mycroft, especially the British Government version of Mycroft, had made quite the career of selling appearances.  "He's always had his highs and lows.  Usually a peak like this heralds an inevitable fall.  But you wouldn't really know that, would you?"

"I find myself honestly wondering why it is that you care so much, Sherlock.  Is this some sort of new development in your life?  Your new habit, perhaps?  Caring for your brother.  How novel.  I wonder when you'll get tired of the charade and go back to making his life more miserable than I could possibly hope to.  Or is it that you feel indebted to your brother, ever the hero, who delivered himself into my 'evil clutches' to save you from a terrible fate?"  The criminal's voice was thick with a nasty sort of amusement, and he raked his emerald eyes over Sherlock before letting his lips twist into a sneer.  "Because if that's the case please rest assured that while I may have used you to get Mycroft to come to me initially everything else that he did, everything you saw, was something he participated in willingly."

"So no, I'm not worried in the least.  About that," he snarled, gesturing to the picture of Mycroft alone.  "Or that," he continued as he glared at the picture of Mycroft and Greg together.  "Greg will be a delightful little diversion.  A rebound boyfriend, if he's particularly ambitious and your brother is desperate.  It'll burn out though, because it always does.  Mycroft can't help but sabotage himself, simply because it gives him an excuse to come running back into my arms.  All you're offering me is proof that I'll have to wait a little longer for your brother to come running back to me than I previously thought."

\----------------------------------

"Wrong," Sherlock said dismissively the second Neil was done speaking, his icy eyes flicking away from the older man as he shook his head slightly. "And so terribly predictable, what on earth did my brother ever see in you? I expected you to at least be a little more interesting, though I suppose you were only creative when it came to your treatment of him. In general, you're just as insipid as the rest of the population." His eyes returned to Neil's as he said, his baritone cool, "It's obvious that you're infuriated by the second picture I showed you based on your body language, posture, and vocal cues. You're trying to hide it because you don't want to admit exactly how much of a reaction I managed to produce, but you're just as prone to jealousy as the rest of these ordinary people. Dull.

"You know as well as I do that Detective Lestrade is much more than a rebound. I knew my brother for much longer than you did, eleven years, in fact, and so I know how to tell when he's romantically interested in someone. The chemistry between the two of them was nearly causing sparks to start in our hospital room and set the whole thing on fire." He couldn't help the slight downward twist of his mouth at the memory; that entire scene had been worse than the actual beating that landed him in the hospital. But it would have more of an effect on Neil than it would on him, so he pushed forward. "Lestrade has an unfortunate habit of trailing after people like a dog that's been left out in the rain and Mycroft seems to take to that sort of a thing well. Funny, that he would appreciate loyalty, considering how much I'm sure you gave him.

"And please do stop trying to attack me by bringing up my relationship with my brother. Your assumptions are nearly painful in their inaccuracy. I feel absolutely no debt towards Mycroft because what he did was his choice and I didn't ask him to save me. And I am not here because I want to hurt you in retaliation for what you did to him." His lips twisted up into a smile. "Oh no, I just wanted to see you behind bars for myself. After all the work I did during my investigation into your enterprises, it's more than rewarding to see the fruits of my labor."

He slipped his mobile back into his pocket, resting his elbows on the table as he leaned slightly towards Neil. "So let me tell you a little secret, Neil; Mycroft. Isn't. Coming. Back. I personally can't testify as to whether or not he'd ever _want_ to, though I assume considering the length and nature of your relationship he'd have some trouble letting it go, but he would never act on that desire. What you saw wasn't him at one of his peaks; no, that was him still climbing his way to recovery. He's not being prevented from seeing you, or even from returning home. He's free to leave anytime he'd like, come and rescue you from here and fall back into whatever it is he seems to think you have to offer. Instead, he chose to invite another man on vacation with him, snog him on the beach, and stay as far away from you as he possibly could." He casually rested one of his arms over the back of his chair, his entire posture speaking of the actual casual contentment he felt about the situation. "Your vanity was your own undoing, in this case. Mycroft's world may once have revolved around you, but it doesn't anymore."

~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft had to carefully keep his expression even as Greg mentioned his tendency to forget to eat; understandably, he was more than a little sensitive to the eating habits of others, especially to any issues they experienced. It was almost funny. He seemed to have transferred any concern for his own wellbeing to others, watching over their health rather than his own. It was why his brother's tendency to just forget the existence of food bothered him so much, and why Greg's mention of a similar habit disturbed him so much now. It wasn't alright for the DI to neglect his health like that--even as his mind turned back to the emaciated frame he'd once worn along with the heart on his sleeve--and Mycroft certainly wasn't going to allow it to happen. Though, of course, Greg's mention of eating combined with the fact that he neglected it sometimes instantly turned off any hunger Mycroft had, his body instantly reacting to the thought of food=bad that his mind had put together.

But he was supposed to be getting better about that. He was getting better about that. Right. Even if he felt slightly nauseous at the moment, he'd have to try and eat something. And there was absolutely no chance of it coming back up again later, because that would be the biggest step backward that he'd taken in a very long time. So. Dinner. In or out? He'd prefer in, honestly, since it was Greg's first night here and a night in with him sounded lovely. It was more personal, more intimate as well.

"I think staying in for your first night here sounds delightful," he said with a soft smile at Greg, all of his more...distasteful thoughts firmly shoved to the back of his mind. "And I'm sure your cooking will be much more than adequate. I'm actually quite pleased that I'll have an opportunity to sample your cooking; I confess, I'm a better bartender than chef. And we'll have to fix that deficiency in your diet, I'm afraid. You've only just arrived, it wouldn't do for you to have you pass out from low blood sugar."

_"_ _If you're serious about coming back I can't have you passing out all over the place."_

Jesus fucking Christ, why did Neil have to pop back into his head at the worst of times? Especially when he'd already been reminded of his eating disorder once today and the last thing he needed was to think about that awful, awful day. God. Okay. New subject, and now, before Greg realized that he was slipping into the extremely painful part of his past. "So, yes, a night in sounds lovely if you're amenable to it. I can make drinks if you're willing to provide dinner." His smile at Greg was just a little dimmer than before, but he was determined to fix that with a few strong drinks, an intimate dinner, and an excellent opportunity to shower Greg with more affection during their movies.

\---------------------------------------------------

Sherlock's disposition was beyond grating, as was his ability to cold read, or deduce, or whatever the hell it was that everyone in the damn Holmes family seemed to be able to do .  Despite Neil putting forward what he thought was a rather good front of nonchalance, Sherlock had managed to irritatingly pick up on the most minute tells.  He was quite tenacious as well; once he latched onto the perceived weakness he tore away at it as much as he could.  Using what was one of the most condescending voices that Neil had ever heard, Sherlock went on about everything from Mycroft's compatibility with his new pet to his own misreading of the detective's motivation for visiting.  Eventually Neil tuned out that the surprisingly deep baritone as Sherlock continued to pick apart point after point.  It was necessary after the first minute and a half; if the older blonde hadn't stopped listening there was a better than fair chance that he'd reach across the table and just try to strangle the arrogant fuck.  The only comfort, one that barely even qualified as any sort of victory, was the fact that at least Sherlock seemed largely uncomfortable with his brother's budding new relationship.

New relationship.  How fucking _infuriating_.  Well, there was no use in hiding the fact that the image of Mycroft with that damnable DI was seared in his brain, or that it made him absolutely livid.  After all, Sherlock had already noticed his anger, so he may was well take a moment to indulge in it.  Oh, when he finally got out of this ridiculous mess there would be absolute hell to pay.  If Mycroft thought that Neil wreaked havoc on his life before, he was in for a nasty surprise.  He'd positively flay the man until his composure hung from him in tatters; strip him down to absolutely nothing and never, ever let the man build himself back up again.  And Lestrade?  Once Neil got a hold of him that man would wish that he'd never been born.

Before Neil could consider the finer points of his eventual revenge any further, the more infuriating of the two Holmes brothers was leaning forward over the table, smirking and going on about how rewarding it was to see Neil incarcerated, and how Mycroft was free to leave his 'recovery' vacation at any point.  That particular statement caused an odd twinge in Neil's chest, and he looked over Sherlock carefully, inspecting him for any sort of tell that would indicate a lie.  All he got was an overwhelming sense of smug superiority. Nothing at all to indicate that his claim was a ruse.  Nothing but that stupid, conceited smile that made Neil want to reach across the table and gouge his eyes out.  Because for the very first time in years, Neil Gibson actually felt the very worst emotion he could possibly feel.  Doubt.  He doubted himself, doubted his plan, and worst of all actually began to wonder (and worry) that Mycroft may actually be able to stay away this time.  Neil managed to cover the feeling with a flood of anger, lashing out at Sherlock as he was the only person within reach.

"You'd better hope that's true you arrogant little fuck," he growled, anger finally getting the best of him, face twisting into a picture of barely restrained rage.  "You'd better pray that I never get out of here because I will tear down everything that you have ever worked for.  That you have ever cared about.  That has ever meant anything to you at all.  And I will get out of this eventually, with or without Mycroft's help.  And destroying you will be the first box I check off on my list of things to do to absolutely wreck that pathetic brother of yours."


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and Neil continue their argument, and Mycroft and Greg carry on being completely unaware and awkwardly adorable.
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Mentions of eating disorders, mentions of suicide / suicide attempts, emotional fallout, (comparative to previous chapters) light angst, burgeoning fluff.
> 
> Sorry for the delay! See the end of this chapter for apologetic notes.

Greg couldn't help but give an appreciative chuckle at the level of concern Mycroft displayed over his skipped meal. It was actually quite sweet in a way, though entirely unnecessary. He'd just forgotten to eat something because he was distracted; it wasn't as if he was starving himself or... oh. Oh. Well, that explained the concern written on Mycroft's face and the far off look in those stormy blue eyes. Shit. He hadn't meant to bring that up, even inadvertently. Lestrade walked in silence alongside the politician for a moment, waiting to see if the man was going to talk about whatever dark thoughts were crossing his mind. Not that he expected Mycroft to actually do so; it was only Greg's first night in. That made it bit early to start expecting the other man to just open up and pour his heart out. It didn't stop Greg from wanting to just scoop the man up in his arms and do whatever he could to chase those thoughts away, though. Instead of indulging his want to twine his arms around Mycroft's waist and kiss him until every black thought was a distant memory, he simply offered a reassuring squeeze to the man's hand. When it was obvious that Mycroft wasn't going to say anything about his train of thought, Lestrade picked up the thread of their conversation where it had fallen, content to let the politician keep those thoughts to himself, at least for the moment.

"A night in sounds perfect," he said with an amiable grin. "I'll take a look at what's available in the kitchen and try to put together something decent for us. And you  **are** an excellent bartender, I can attest to that. But you might want to hold off on your judgement of my cooking until you've actually tasted it. I'm not a terrible cook, but I've had my fair share of disasters before. We might want to see if there's somewhere nearby that we can grab some takeaway as a backup option in case I end up making our dinner look like something Sherlock would have whipped up in one of his experiments." Greg gave another chuckle; the idea of Sherlock trying to cook anything was simultaneously hilarious and terrifying. Surely he wouldn't actually mess things up that badly, but he still wanted to impress Mycroft a bit.

Though Greg was worried about being able to make something that would be in line with Mycroft's undoubtedly refined palate, he found he wasn't overly concerned with his performance in the kitchen. No, most of his worry was directed towards the politician himself. Though Mycroft was doing an excellent job of trying to move past whatever feelings Greg's ill advised commentary had caused, it was obvious that at least some of those feelings were lingering. The thought made a big of guilt stir in the DI's stomach as they continued their walk back to the villa. He was here to help Mycroft, not to make things worse. But when Mycroft smiled at him there was a lingering hint of sadness, which made Greg all the more determined to make sure that whatever was haunting him was thoroughly remedied by the end of the evening. When they reached the path up to the villa's balcony he stopped for a moment, holding fast to Mycroft's hand. When the politician turned to see why Greg had stopped, the DI leaned in and stole another brief, chaste kiss before reluctantly releasing Mycroft's hand so he could grip the railing as he climbed slowly up the stairs.

"This villa is gorgeous," he murmured when he reached the top, turning to survey the perfectly picturesque view of the ocean the balcony provided. He couldn't help but beam at Mycroft as the man appeared next to him a second later, and he reached out for the politician's hand once more. "Dinner, drinks, movies, your excellent company... You know, you're going to positively spoil me, Mycroft Holmes. As for our movies, though, I just thought of something. I mean, it's not like we can just run out and rent a video or anything. But I'm betting you have Netflix or something, yeah?"

\-----------------------------

Oh, it was more than rewarding to see Neil's composure start to buckle under Sherlock's rapid-fire barbs, the older man's face twisting up as he growled out a line of threats that Sherlock didn't even blink at. He knew Neil was absolutely no threat to him anymore, and had only been a threat in the first place because of an extensive criminal network that was slowly disintegrating without its leader to maintain it. Criminals did have an unfortunate habit of fighting over the top position as soon as it was vacated, killing and hurting each other until the entire thing just collapsed in on itself. So all of Neil's threats were empty, try as the other man might to convince himself otherwise.

"Oh, Neil," Sherlock said, his voice a touch admonishing and definitely patronizing, "we both know very well that you're never getting out of here. That ship sailed the moment Mycroft agreed to give a statement against you. He's not going to magically show up to recant it and try to get you out of prison; why would he do that when he doesn't want to see you again? No, I'm afraid my brother isn't coming back, and won't even spare the time to make a phone call. Perhaps he'll send you a postcard?" A smirk curled over his lips, the younger man unable to help himself. There was just something so vindicating about goading Neil into anger when he knew the older man could do little to respond.

"I'd advise you take up a hobby to entertain yourself. Something that you can do day after day as you rot away in here, waiting for an escape that never comes. If you ever do manage to get out, I'll try to muster up the energy to be scared of you then. For now, you have no power over me or my brother, or over anything, really. You know your threats are entirely idle, and the sooner you stop pretending this will all be over soon, the easier it will be for you to accept that Mycroft beat you. He won."

\-----------------------------

There was a special quality to the silence that followed Mycroft's words, and he realized that Greg had noticed the shift in his mood and was giving him an opportunity to talk about it, to share whatever was on his mind. But Mycroft kept his lips firmly sealed, letting the silence drag out until Greg finally continued where Mycroft had left off, acting as if there hadn't been a gap at all. It wasn't exactly that Mycroft didn't want to share with Greg; he knew that was what he was supposed to be doing, that opening up was the healthy thing to do and the right thing to do if he wanted to get closer to Greg. But these things...when Mycroft had a bad thought, it wasn't something as simple as him taking his own self-esteem down a notch or reflecting on his injured arm. If his mind went to any dark place, it was instantly back to the worst places; his eating disorder and/or Neil.

Which begged the question; did Greg already know about the disorder? Because the DI hadn't shown any confusion about Mycroft's change in mood, and had given him an opportunity to speak and share rather than asking what was wrong. Something that Greg said had tipped off the darker thoughts in Mycroft's mind, and Greg seemed to realize that. But they had been talking about eating, the conversation as far away from Neil as possible, which was the one bad conversational topic that Greg already knew about. So that meant that Greg had to know about the disorder. Which was a much worse thought.

God, Greg already knew about so many cracks and flaws in Mycroft's psyche, why did he have to know about that one as well? This meant, too, that it would be harder for Mycroft to cheat just slightly, relapse a little bit to make himself feel better while he was recovering. It was hard to hide relapses anyway, but it would be harder now if Greg's sharp, observant eyes were on his habits as well. And honestly, Mycroft needed at least that to fall back on. Neil wasn't here--and thank god for that, though Mycroft was ashamed to say despite everything, he'd still craved the older man's presence on occasion--so he only had the disorder left to--well, really, to comfort himself in some strange and twisted way. So the thought of Greg knowing was...a little alarming. Which made him wonder how he knew in the first place. Ah. He knew the answer to that.

He didn't have much time to consider it, though, because Greg surprised him by tugging him into another brief kiss before breaking away to head up the stairs. Mycroft looked after him for a moment before following, a small smile gracing his lips. No, no matter what Greg knew he was glad to have him here. Maybe it was better that the DI came pre-informed so there was that little bit less that Mycroft had to share of his own volition. And Greg was letting things come in their own time, carrying on the easier air they'd had earlier by talking about movies and company and drinks, and it took Mycroft a minute to realize the DI had asked him a question.

"Ah, yes, I do have Netflix," he said, glad that once again Greg's hand was fitted against his own. It was a lovely, comforting touch. Reassuring. "I did have to find a way to entertain myself before you arrived, and I confess I may have already worked my way through several of my favorite musicals before you arrived." He released Greg's hand again to pick up both of their glasses with his free hand, carrying them as he led Greg inside again. There was a mostly companionable silence as he placed them down on the counter, and then his eyes turned back to Greg, the half-formed and unfortunate question crossing his lips; "Anthea told you, didn't she? About the disorder?"

\-----------------------------

Mycroft was still just a bit withdrawn as they entered the villa again, Greg opening the door for Mycroft so he could carry their drinks inside, following the politician into the kitchen. The silence between them was largely a good silence, the two of them simply moving together without the need to fill every gap between them with words. Still, Lestrade had come to know Mycroft well enough during that hellacious week in the hospital that he could pick up the oh-so-subtle tells that his companion was putting forward. The slight downward turn to the corners of his lips, the slight bit of distance and thin layer of ice in Mycroft's stormcloud blue eyes let the DI know how tense the other man was. Well, perhaps tense wasn't the best word. Apprehensive was more like it. Once their glasses clinked into place on the counter, Mycroft turned back to Greg, finally giving the concerned DI some insight into what sort of troublesome currents were still running under that placid exterior. Oh, of course. Mycroft hadn't known that Greg knew about his past struggles with his eating disorder. How the brilliant politician managed to deduce that based on their earlier conversation was a complete mystery to Greg; he certainly hadn't said anything about it, or given any indication that his concerned pause was anything other that just that, a concerned pause. Not that it really mattered; it was getting Mycroft to at least acknowledge things, and that was the first step on the path to actually getting him to really talk about them.

Something about the question made Greg feel sort of like he was keeping some sort of secret from Mycroft, though. Perhaps it was that he had personal information about Mycroft's life that hadn't been shared with him by Mycroft himself. The normally reserved politician was such an incredibly private person that knowing anything about his life that hadn't been disclosed by those ( _handsome, soft, oh so delicious_ ) lips felt almost like a breach of the man's trust. But how do you bring that up with someone? None of their interactions at the hospital were quite right, and he'd only been here for a few minutes. Good lord, he was going to have to make sure that Anthea didn't disclose any additional information to him; or he'd at least have to tell Mycroft immediately. Because it was obvious that Mycroft was going to be able to read him like an open book, and while Lestrade didn't mind the other man knowing what he was thinking, he certainly didn't like the uncomfortable feeling that accompanied this particular conversation. Like he was a kid with his hand caught in the candy jar. Only the candy jar was Mycroft's rather complicated past. With a sigh, he reflexively raked a hand through his silver hair before answering, the motion making him look as abashed as he felt.

"Ah, yeah. Yeah she did. Told me after you left the hospital the second time, actually. I guess she wanted me to know so I'd have an idea of what you'd been through before. Definitely wanted me to know so that I'd know what you were up against when you came back." Once the glasses were out of the politician's good hand, Greg reached out again, taking it in his own. He looked up at Mycroft with apologetic brown eyes, uncertainty written in every line of his slight frown. "I'm really sorry. I.. I should have figured out how to bring it up before you figured it out and... Look. I wouldn't necessarily be fond of the idea that somebody knew stuff about me that I didn't bring up myself, so if you're angry and want some space I completely understand. Just let me know, ok?"

\-----------------------------

The condescending tone of Sherlock's voice felt very much like someone running nails down the chalkboard of Neil's mind. It was grating, annoying, simply awful... and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. His venomous reminder that Mycroft had actually come forward and given a statement regarding the blonde's actual involvement in the entire scheme was beyond infuriating. How badly had he miscalculated? When the entire plan had taken form in his mind, it seemed the furthest option from likely, that Mycroft would actually take any kind of legal stand against him. It was the boldest thing that the politician had ever done; even after that lovely car accident that Neil had arranged for him the man hadn't pursued any kind of legal recourse. The fact that he would do so now was beyond infuriating. Neil could practically feel Mycroft slipping out of his grasp and there wasn't a single fucking thing he could do about it. It was enough to make him see red. Literally it turned out, as the rage that had no outlet began to build a terrible pressure inside him, causing the edges of his vision to go blurry and a bit crimson.

Sherlock's declaration that Mycroft had won finally grounded Neil; gave him an anchor point to stabilize him lest he get swept away completely on a tide of his own rage. After all, Sherlock was right to a certain degree; there was little that he could do in the immediate. Not that he couldn't arrange for things to happen, of course. Prison wasn't thought- or message-proof, and money went a long way to getting goals accomplished. And money, unlike patience, was something Neil had in ample supply. Enough to spare, really.

"Whether or not your brother 'won' remains to be seen. Playing Mycroft has always been a long game." Green eyes carefully considered Sherlock, finally applying something other than fury to his current predicament. For a man that swore up and down he wasn't engaged in this particular round of taunts and goads for his brother's benefit, he didn't seem to be able to shut up about Mycroft. No, he was trying to be certain that Neil would accept his 'defeat' so he could walk away from this meeting with some sense that Mycroft would be safe. Well, he may not be able to do anything to threaten Mycroft's future, at least for the moment. There was one thing he could do, though. Neil could damn well make sure that he ripped any sense of his brother's safety or well-being away from Sherlock. Exact his toll, as it were. Nobody was coming out of this undamaged. Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to be the exception.

"A very long game indeed, and one we've been playing for years. Even after Uni, the things we did together continued to haunt him. All those lovely self destructive tendencies; the bulimia, the emotional isolation, that miserable spiral of self hatred he slips into so easily? All those are  **me** . My hand, in his life,  **forever** . I've damaged him in a way that I've become a permanent part of him; there are things that no amount of puppy love with that idiot DI or distance between us will ever be able to heal. Even if I'm stuck in here forever, I'll always be the voice in the back of his mind telling him that he's worthless, that he's frigid, that nobody could possibly want him but me. So in that way, really, I think that means that **I** won."

\-----------------------------

It was sweet in a way, Greg's reaction to Mycroft's question. The other man seemed so concerned that he'd done something to upset the politician, had betrayed his trust in some deep, irrevocable way. It brought a small smile to Mycroft's lips, and he offered Greg's hand a slight, reassuring squeeze. "Let me assure you that I'm not angry, Gregory, not in the slightest," he said softly. "Due to the...exacting nature of the situation, Anthea did what she believed was best and tried to make certain that you were fully informed in order to make it easier for you to assist me in my recovery. While I would have preferred that you didn't know, you're one of the only people that I would trust with this information."

He sighed slightly, pulling away from Greg to use his free hand to brace himself against the counter, his eyes on the glasses. They flicked back to Greg's for a moment as he asked, "Does Sherlock know?" At the answering shake of Greg's head, Mycroft nodded slowly, his gaze returning to the glasses. "Good. That's very good." He paused again, letting the silence drag out as he thought for a minute, trying to adjust to this new information. It was true, though, when he said that Greg was one of the only people he would trust having this knowledge. He knew there was no chance of the DI using it against him or sharing it with anyone else, and Greg had at least managed to hide it from Sherlock like Anthea had, like Mycroft had been doing since he was eighteen. The question now, however, was if he wanted to gloss over the subject with Greg for the time being, or open up. Like he was supposed to be doing. Like he wanted to do with Greg.

Well, this wasn't how he'd pictured things going with Greg when he did decide to open up. Jumping right into the serious issues rather than building up to them with a few small things at a time. Perhaps it was better this way, though; it meant that Mycroft wouldn't be able to hide behind any of his masks, would have to completely allow Greg in, which would pave the way for more in the future. It was like diving right into a cold pool rather than wading in. And if this would bring the two of them closer like he wanted, then he could jump in. So he took a deep breath, and said with a hesitation that didn't suit his normally self-assured speech, "Unfortunately, it's another side effect of my time with Neil, I'm afraid. Though I can't say he entirely caused this one."

He paused again, chewing over his words as he stared into the depths of the glasses on the counter. "I'm afraid my weight was a source of insecurity before I met Neil, and he had a habit of finding every one of my insecurities and then using them against me. That particular one hit its peak with a rather badly timed comment about my weight the first time I tried to leave him." Another pause, this one slightly more pained than the one before. "By the time I made it back to him...well, I'd lost enough weight that I managed to pass out in his living room, collapse again the next day due to...overexertion, and threw up the food he'd managed to get into me the night before." He smiled slightly, no humor in it. "The one thing I can say for Neil is that he did, actually, take care of me, at least in that sense. Every time I approached a dangerous point with my weight, he'd force me to recover again. Though I suppose that was less out of the love I assumed on his part and more out of the fact that if he didn't he wouldn't have anything to play with anymore."

His hand tightened on the counter edge. That was true. Neil had never actually  _cared_ about him; his vigilance about Mycroft's health was only because he didn't want the younger man to permanently damage himself before he had the chance to. "Unfortunately, the disorder continued throughout my relationship with him and worsened when I left him. It was always a coping mechanism; with Neil, it was one of the few things that I still had control over in my life, something that, try as he might, he couldn't entirely train me out of. And after I left him, it was the same. A measure of control, and something to distract myself from thoughts of returning to him. And sadly, It seems I've never quite been able to train myself out of it. In the end, it's always a choice between two coping mechanisms; the disorder, or Neil. The lesser of two evils, if you will."

\-----------------------------

It was a good thing that Sherlock's blank, expressionless mask was so automatically maintained, because Neil's words shook him to his very core. Well, one word, really.  _Bulimia_ . No. No, that couldn't be right, Neil had to be lying. Mycroft wasn't bulimic, he didn't have an eating disorder, surely if Neil was right about that Sherlock would have known. His brother was certainly intelligent and extremely crafty, and probably one of the only people who could truly hide something from Sherlock, but something that major, drawn out over that period of time? No, it just wouldn't be possible. He would have known, somehow. There would have been signs.

But there had been signs, hadn't there? That visit home where Mycroft had been as thin as death, bones starting to show under his skin. The way his older brother kept changing the subject to distract Sherlock's attention, keeping him busy and engaged in other matters so he wouldn't notice the obvious signs. Sherlock wouldn't have really been able to interpret what he saw anyway, because he hadn't had enough exposure to things like that to understand exactly what his brother was going through. Oh god. Mycroft was bulimic. And had been for years, if Neil's words were anything to go by. And Sherlock hadn't even known the entire time, hadn't even had a CLUE as to what was going on with his brother.

His mind felt like it had been driving too fast and had just slammed to a halt, forcefully, against a wall. This was why he hated sentiment, because it halted thinking and impaired his mental faculties. It was difficult for him to draw himself back out of his own head to say, "I'm not foolish enough to believe that my brother will entirely forget about you, of course you'll always be a presence in his mind. But you won't reap any benefits from the seeds you've sown. Despite your influence, he'll be able to move on with his life. Find someone else, whether that's Lestrade or someone different down the line. But you? You'll be stuck here, fixated on him and the exact point where he ruined your life by putting you behind bars. Face it; Mycroft can move on. You'll never be able to. Funny, how he's suddenly the one with all the control over your mind."

\-----------------------------

Greg was unsure that anything he'd ever experienced felt quite as comforting as the reassuring squeeze that Mycroft gave his hand, grey blue eyes sincere when he said that he wasn't angry with Lestrade for knowing something so immensely personal. The DI gave a light sigh, letting go of the tension that had been building in him ever since the clever politician had asked him how he found out about the eating disorder. That single gesture, when combined with Mycroft's words, was enough to settle the growing pit of guilt that had started opening up in the DI's stomach. " _You're one of the only people that I would trust with this information._ " It wouldn't ordinarily inspire such affectionate feelings in Greg, but he knew immediately how much those words meant to Mycroft, how rarely the man would ever have said them. It put Lestrade on a very elite list of trusted people. Hell, as far as he knew that list was only two people long. Greg and Anthea were the only ones to know about Mycroft's struggles, the only ones who could be trusted. Hell, it was almost enough to make the back of Lestrade's eyes burn; an overwhelming surge of gratitude and affection washing through him. It was all the silver haired DI could do not to simply throw his arms around Mycroft's shoulders and hold him close, showering the man with kisses and thanks.

Fortunately, before Greg could do something quite so impulsive and forward Mycroft withdrew his hand and pulled away physically, resting himself against the counter as his eyes wandered the remains of their drinks before returning to Greg's face. A temporary thread of worry pulled itself taut in Lestrade's chest, but that passed as soon as Mycroft started talking. Actually talking; about his past, his mood, his mindset... for a moment Greg was at a complete loss for what to do simply because that much candidness was unexpected. He fixed his brown eyes on the hesitant man in front of him and... oh, that was new. Mycroft never really seemed hesitant about anything. Given what the DI understood about his relationship with Neil, though, it wasn't entirely surprising that being emotionally open was the one thing that the normally eloquent politician would stumble over. Not wanting to interrupt, Greg simply watched Mycroft as he told the story about his disorder; eyes flashing from worried (about his companion) to angry (at Neil), to outright sadness. Not pity, because nobody wanted pity and while Greg did feel awful that Mycroft had been put through such an awful mess - by his own hand or encouraged by someone else's - he'd made a rather good life for himself despite the difficulty. No, if anything complimented the sadness in Greg's expression it was certainly pride. It would have been impossible for the DI not to feel that towards Mycroft at that moment. That the politician was even willing to  _try_ discussing his past had to be enormously challenging for him and Greg couldn't help but admire the man for trying. And incredibly flattered that Mycroft trusted him enough to, well, try  _with_ .

There was something so terribly sad in Mycroft's eyes when he said that Neil's intervention in his health wasn't out of love. Already pale knuckles went white on the countertop, as if he were clutching to the marble surface like a lifeline. In a way, perhaps it was. Mycroft had indicated that he was adrift without either of his two vices to fall back into; Neil and purging were both off the table. What did you say to someone like that? In a wholly selfish way, a way that he'd never discuss with Mycroft because it was wrong for both of them, part of Greg wanted to be his new support system. Less of a crutch, and more of a shoulder to lean on but still. It'd just be trading one outside source of support for another. Whether or not they worked out as a couple, it'd be in Mycroft's best interest to find something else, something that was entirely his own to replace his previous bad habits.

Now if only Lestrade could figure out how to put that into words. Silvery brows knitted together as he tried to form sentences that didn't sound dismissive or self involved. Nothing he thought of felt right, though. Finally exasperated with his inability to express himself with even a modicum of eloquence, he simply stepped forward and put his hands on each of Mycroft's shoulders, taking care to be gentle with his injured side. To hell with finding 'the right way' to say what he was thinking.  _Anything_ was better than simply staring at the man, probably looking for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights. Lestrade smiled, and gently stroked his thumbs down the sides of Mycroft's pale neck before finally managing to shake his words loose.

"Well, you never have to settle for the lesser of two evils again. I know it can't be easy, and I'll do anything I can to help you... and I know you'll find something else to help you feel in control. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon yeah? And until then, if you feel rotten about something, that's one of the reasons I'm here. So even though it may be hard, at least consider talking to me if you end up in a bad spot, alright?"

\-----------------------------

"Control over my location, perhaps, but not over my mind. Though you're darling for thinking so. I think you've misread the relationship I had with your brother. While he was quite fixated on me, I have to say I didn't really regard him as anything other than a rather entertaining hobby." Gibson delivered the words with his least sincere smile, a knife edged grin that did little to cover the hateful look in his emerald eyes. "I'm sure that at least one of my fellow prisoners will prove equally entertaining, if not more so."

Neil couldn't help but give a little smirk at Sherlock's somewhat weakened comeback. Though he couldn't piece together what exactly it was that he said to disturb the taller man, it was evident that something shook him. The predator in Neil told him that his opponent was on the defensive for the first time since entering the room, and the pragmatist recognized that this would likely be the best point to exit the conversation, while he was on the upswing.

"And if you think that putting me in jail with hundreds of other criminals is going to do anything to damage my business enterprises, you're even more naive than I thought, Sherlock. But by all means, if you need to think that you've got the big bad wolf behind bars where he can't hurt you or your brother again, by all means. Be my guest. Here, let me make it easier for you." Neil gave his best 'fuck off' smile, white teeth bared as he spread his hands palm up and gave a little shrug. "What can I say? You got me, detective." His voice dripped with sarcasm, and his smile while delivering the words was beyond smug. Neil leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankle over one knee and folding his hands in his lap, giving Sherlock his very best 'beyond bored' stare.

"I think I'm done here. So if you haven't any new information to give me, better barbs to deliver, or anything of interest at all I think our little meeting's done. Be a dear and call the guard to take me back, would you?"

\-----------------------------

For a minute, Mycroft thought that perhaps he'd shared too much, or Greg hadn't been prepared to hear what he did choose to share. Because the DI didn't seem to be able to speak, caught looking at Mycroft as he obviously struggled to find the right words to say. Mycroft didn't really care if they were the right words at all; he would have been happy with just words, anything to distract from the pressure in his chest both from reliving some of his more painful experiences, and from his nervousness at seeing Greg's reaction to what he'd said. He was taking a leap here. Even with Anthea, who already knew about things, he didn't open up and discuss it. It would have been inappropriate, considering their employee-employer situation, and besides, sharing was not something he did well with anyone.

It turned out that Greg found actions instead of words first. Mycroft was surprised when he moved to touch him, but said touches were gentle and soothing, the DI's thumbs softly stroking the sides of Mycroft's neck in a way that was surprisingly relaxing. Despite that, though, Mycroft tensed minutely at Greg's request for him to tell him if he was having trouble. That, he was afraid, would be nearly impossible. Too much too soon, as it was. And maybe too much forever. Just the thought of dragging Greg further into his mess by running to the DI every time he was on the brink of taking his self-loathing out on himself physically made something tighten in his chest. No, he didn't think he'd be able to do that. But to try?

"I can at least promise to consider it," Mycroft said, and for once he wasn't hiding behind any of his masks or using diplomatic tones to cover hidden intentions. Greg was here to help, and it mattered so much to him that the DI was even bothering to invest this much time and energy into fixing him. Neil's voice at the back of his head could hiss about how cold and unlovable he was as much as it liked, Greg Lestrade was proving it wrong within the first half on hour of his being here.

Suddenly, Mycroft felt the overwhelming urge to express at least a modicum of his gratitude towards the other man. Words, however, never seemed quite genuine enough when everything was wrapped in an extensive vocabulary and his posh tones, so instead he leaned forward to softly kiss Greg's forehead, letting his lips remain there for a few beats before he moved them to Greg's own lips, kissing the mouth that he was very quickly getting addicted to. He'd intended to keep it sweet and chaste, but there was yet another unfortunate aftereffect from his time with Neil; the association between feelings and physicality. Because of the feelings Greg had expressed and his own feelings, he found himself making the kiss a little more heated without meaning to, his tongue breaching the barrier of Greg's lips this time after he'd run it against the DI's bottom lip. His free hand found its way to Greg's waist, drawing the other man just a little closer to him, and Mycroft suddenly remembered why he liked kissing so much as his brain went the most quiet it had been all day. Greg really was too good for him.

\-----------------------------

Sherlock's eyes slowly narrowed the more that Neil talked, brain quickly flicking through the criminal's speech patterns and pulling his words apart. It was quite obvious that his brother's ex thought he had the upper hand now, no doubt having picked up a slight change in Sherlock's demeanor, and was now trying to retreat before Sherlock had a chance to hit him with any return fire. Well, at least the man was a difficult opponent in a battle of wits. Sherlock still didn't know what Mycroft had seen in him, but then again, Mycroft had been a different person before Uni -- before Neil, he reminded himself -- and Neil was enough of a predator to be able to switch the face he had on instantly.

The younger man was well aware that if he left now, Neil would consider it a victory and go back to his cell self-satisfied and smug. And Sherlock simply couldn't allow that, not after everything the blonde had done, not after the years of abuse that his brother had suffered at this psychopath's hands, not after Sherlock had learned that Neil had even caused fucking bulimia in his brother. No. Neil wasn't going to win. But how to take him down? What would cause the most damage to Neil's ego? He'd have to hit a spot that was already bruised; trying to create a new injury would be too difficult and too easy to recover from. He'd already brought up the fact that Mycroft had made the statement against him to land him here, and that had certainly had an effect...

Oh. There. It was hard to keep a smile from curling over his face as he realized his point of attack. Instead, his face was blank as he coolly said, "Certainly. However, I would like to ask one question first; how did it feel?" At Neil's querying look, he finally allowed the smile loose. "How did it feel when my brother chose death over you? Oh, you must have thought you had him," he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table again. "After your little show with the camera, I'm sure you thought you had complete control over him again and he was going to go running back into your arms. Instead, he decided death was a better option than ever seeing your face again. And even when he survived and found himself in the hospital with a choice, he chose to put you away instead of coming back. Tell me, Neil, how did that feel? To know that he truly didn't want you anymore? That he was taking a stand, and that you couldn't control him anymore? Was it better or worse than when he met you two years ago and told you he was officially done and threatened you with the full force of the British government? Oh yes, I know about that," Sherlock said to Neil's look. "I have to say, there's nothing that entertains me more than seeing to what extremes my brother will go to reject you. So tell me, which one stung the most? Death, or prison?"

\-----------------------------

When Mycroft promised to 'at least consider' turning to Greg when things became difficult, the DI couldn't help but beam. Sure, it wasn't a reassurance that the troubled politician would come running to him whenever the tide of his mind turned dark and deep, but those words would have been false. Something said to make Greg feel better rather than Mycroft actually agreeing to seek out and accept assistance. No, Lestrade was much more satisfied with Mycroft's promise of consideration; that at least was completely genuine. Those words weren't meant to placate or calm, no, not at all. They were an honest assessment of the politician's mindset, and a genuine agreement to at least put Greg's support on the list of available options. Mycroft's agreement was more progress than Lestrade had hoped to accomplish in the first week, let alone the first day of their time together. He even opened his mouth to say as much, to let the normally reserved and self-sufficient politician that he knew exactly how much that agreement meant to him, but then Mycroft's lips were pressed to his forehead and any words that had been forming temporarily evaporated under the warm blanket of sheer affection he felt rolling off the other man.

Brown eyes couldn't help but flutter shut; abandoning sight and allowing his body to fully enjoy the sensation of those warm lips pressed up against his skin. The contact only lasted a few seconds before Mycroft pulled back, and Greg opened his eyes again, expecting a continuation in their prior conversation. What he wasn't expecting was for his companion to surge forward and press his lips to Greg's mouth, the movement starting out soft and gentle but picking up more passion as each exquisite second passed. When that clever tongue traced across and then breached the seam of his mouth, all Lestrade could do was give a light, throaty groan in appreciation. Something in the back of his mind kicked up a feeble protest; that they should be taking things slowly, that right at the heels of an emotionally vulnerable conversation was probably not the best time to make out with his... his... whatever Mycroft was. Other than amazing. Greg couldn't think of a word to describe the intricate latticework of connection between them, but that was likely because he couldn't really think of anything with the politician's tongue sweeping gently through his mouth.

Then Mycroft's good arm snaked around his waist, a gentle tug pulling Lestrade even closer, and every coherent thought at all fled as Greg lost himself in the onslaught of sensation. Their chests pressed firmly together, and Greg positively melted into the embrace. All the breathless DI could do was answer with a soft moan, his own hand going to the small of Mycroft's back to steady himself. That was a feeling that he could get used to. The whole symphony of sensation was something that Greg could used to, really. Or perhaps he'd never get 'used to' it, but rather never stop wanting it. Yes, that was surely it, because his head spun and his knees felt watery as Mycroft pulled them closer together. Lestrade answered by splaying his fingers across the dip in Mycroft' spine, pushing against the other man's mouth with a fervor that complimented the politician's. With the increase in proximity Greg could feel the warmth of Mycroft's body heat, feel the other man's heart hammering his chest. No, wait, that was his own heart; his pulse and heartbeat hammering in concert, the sound drowning out the last of his brain's feeble attempts to take back control of the situation from his libido.

Lestrade brought his free hand up to the back of Mycroft's head, letting his fingers card through the soft auburn strands as he pulled the other man closer, deepening the embrace. Moving his tongue along the silken expanse of Mycroft's bottom lip, following the motion with a gentle series of nips at the soft flesh. It was almost as if he was caught in some sort of gravitational pull; while his mind kept telling him that he should pull back and  _think_ about things, his body kept shifting closer and closer to the man in his arms. Greg sucked gently at the politician's lower lip before letting his own tongue slide into Mycroft's mouth, the wet heat sending shivers through his spine. God, this was impossibly fantastic. He'd been positively aching to kiss Mycroft like this since the very first chaste brush of their lips. Mycroft evidently felt the same way; their bodies had molded comfortably against one another, and the politician was kissing him back with that sharp, clever tongue with every ounce of Greg's enthusiasm returned. When they finally had to break and come up for air, the rational part of Lestrade's mind clawed its way back to the surface. Though it wasn't quite able to make him take his hand off the small of the politician's back, it did at least allow him to move his other hand from the back of Mycroft's head to his cheek.

"Is... Is this really what you want?" He finally managed to get the words out after a moment of panting, nearly losing himself, or rather the rapidly unraveling remains of his self control, gazing into those stormy blue eyes. "Because god knows I want this," Greg growled, pushing himself a little closer against Mycroft's chest. "But only if and when  _you're_ ready. I don't want this to be something that we rush into. You mean more to me that that. So much more." Lestrade let his thumb trail over the arch of that prominent Holmes cheekbone, brown eyes searching Mycroft's aristocratic face for some sort of answer, ready to pull back at the slightest hint of hesitation in his partner's expression.

\-----------------------------

Emerald eyes narrowed and Neil couldn't help but give an angry hiss as Sherlock brought up his older brother's suicide attempt. Well, it was more than a mention; the cutting words that kept issuing forth from the dark haired younger man were more like an assault than a conversation. Fucking hell, that was cold. The part of Neil's brain devoted to cataloging everything actually gave the detective a slight nod; the sheer emotional frigidity that must have been necessary to use Mycroft's attempted suicide as a weapon was admirable in a way. The much larger part of Neil's brain reacted with unrestrained fury, and the blonde had to catch himself before he launched himself across the table and throttled the smug words right out of the younger Holmes brother's throat. It didn't help matters at all that the arrogant little fuck was right. The words from Mycroft's final text danced through his mind. " _I win_ ." If it weren't for that single little message, Neil would easily have been able to tell himself that Mycroft's actions were due to overwhelming despair at Neil's rejection, which had come mere moments earlier.

"Cute but yet again, a terrible misread of the situation. I don't suppose that Mycroft would have talked about it with you. I can see why not; any man willing to use his brother's tendency towards self harm as a weapon can't possibly care much about his mental state. So undoubtedly your older brother would have hidden the truth from you; either to protect himself from more of your callousness or simply because he wants to maintain the illusion of being the stalwart older sibling. Either way, you've remained unenlightened." Neil's voice was a low, threatening murmur. His green eyes radiated a calm, collected sort of fury through sheer exertion of will. Neil kept a tight reign on his temper, only allowing the coldest parts of it to slip through. Sherlock was obviously baiting him into a reaction, and while the young detective had certainly gotten one there was no reason for the criminal to show it.

"No. Mycroft didn't try to kill himself to get away from me. He took that unfortunate path because after our little  _liaison_ , I told him we were through. I'd let him labor for years under the illusion that he had 'escaped' or whatever it was that he thought he was doing with that ridiculous meeting a few years ago. But the truth is, I've been done with him for quite some time. I was simply indulging in one good break up fuck, as a way of letting him know that our arrangement had officially come to an end." Neil leaned back in his chair, body language carefully calculated to be at ease, dismissive, nonchalant. Even his voice had taken on a bored sort of drone, the one he saved for business meetings with the exceptionally dull. Sharp green eyes leveled with Sherlock's lighter gaze, and the criminal gave a crooked smile and an insincere apologetic shrug. "That was why he took those pills. Not to get away from me, but because I was leaving him for good. Though I'm glad you find your brother's attempt on his own life entertaining. Perhaps you'll truly enjoy yourself the next time when he tries and succeeds. Which do you think it will be? The slow death of self starvation, or something less dramatic but mercifully faster? I hear you're quite the good detective. I'm sure you can figure it out."

\-----------------------------

Good lord could Greg _kiss_. After a few moments in which Mycroft was sure he was adjusting to his surprise at the contact and could only groan appreciatively--though that was a wonderful noise in itself--the DI started kissing back, his hand going to splay across the small of Mycroft's back and pull the other man impossibly closer. Mycroft was sure that was the point at which his pulse kicked up, though maybe it was when Greg's other hand began to card through Mycroft's hair, the pads of the DI's fingers occasionally brushing across Mycroft's sensitive temples in a way that was certainly encouraged. Or maybe it was when Greg reciprocated, running his tongue across Mycroft's bottom lip, his teeth laying gentle nips, before his tongue swept into Mycroft's mouth. Or maybe it was the heat of Greg's body against his, or the feel of the other man's pulse, or just the closeness between them that he'd been craving since that very first day in the pub when just undoing a few buttons had been enough to get the DI slightly undone.

Then, of course, reality intruded and they were both trying to catch their breath as they broke apart, and Mycroft was fully ready to dive right back in once he could breathe, but before he had a chance, Greg was opening his mouth and Mycroft had to say he wasn't extremely surprised by the words that were coming out of his mouth. Of course. Of course lovely, sweet, cautious Greg would have to ask if Mycroft was sure before they proceeded any further, despite how much he wanted this himself. Because oh, Mycroft could see how very much he wanted this. Greg's body was entirely molded to his own, the DI's frame pressed up against every available inch of Mycroft's, and he had hardly even managed to get his words out, mostly growling them because that was all he could manage at the moment. And despite the questions he was asking, Greg hadn't put any physical space between them, hadn't even been able to take his hands off of the other man. Greg's self-restraint was just a step away from snapping, and Mycroft wanted to push it over the edge.

What really got to him, though, beyond the obvious signs of Greg's interest, beyond the physical contact between them, beyond the fantastic kiss they'd just shared, was the end of Greg's words.  _"You mean more than that to me. So much more."_ Mycroft's chest nearly seized up, something wonderful and damn strong sweeping through it that made him want to kiss Greg even harder to prove how he felt. He had to remind himself that no, jumping the man would not be appropriate and that he had to actually form an answer to his question, set Greg's mind at ease. That wouldn't be difficult in the slightest. It would be fun, actually. After all, the chance to drive Greg a little crazy in the best way was always welcome.

"Gregory," he purred, leaning forward to kiss along the DI's jaw, forcing the DI's head back, "your concern is very sweet and very touching, but very unnecessary." His kisses continued down Greg's neck, his mouth pausing at the juncture of shoulder and neck to nip softly, sweeping his tongue languidly over the same spot before he moved to the other side of Greg's neck. "We're not rushing into anything. If I wasn't ready, or sure, or if you didn't mean as much to me as you do, I wouldn't be moving forward." His hand moved from where it was wrapped around Greg's waist to the DI's hip, long fingers brushing at the line that existed between trousers and shirt. He pulled his head back up to lay another kiss on the DI's lips, this one shorter and a tad more chaste, before pulling back to say in his absolute best charming voice, the one practically dripping with honey and seduction, not to mention a fair amount of the desire he felt towards Greg, "So, my dear, if you want me, you can most certainly have me."

\-----------------------------

When Neil finished what was no doubt supposed to be a dramatic, powerful speech, Sherlock couldn't help but start to chuckle. "Oh, you're so very good at deluding yourself, Neil," he said in an almost conversational tone. "Is that from the psychopathy, the narcissism, or a combination thereof? Or perhaps it's just simple delusions of grandeur, I'm sure those would apply to you as well." Because Neil was an exceptional liar, but Sherlock was an even better reader. His eyes had been busy pulling apart Neil's body language even as his ears were catching and dissecting the blonde's words, seeing the discord between the two. Neil was trying so very desperately to hide the reaction he was having to Sherlock's words, but he was indeed having a rather strong one. Which meant Sherlock had been absolutely spot on. Time to drive that point home. Just to make sure it made it all the way through the criminal's rather thick, self-centered head.

"Whatever name it has, I must say that it's quite effective for you. I don't particularly care if you want to lie to yourself and say Mycroft tried to kill himself because he was devastated at the thought of being free of your sadism, if it makes you feel better by all means, continue to delude yourself. But we both know that's the farthest you could be from the truth." His lips curved up further at the corners. Oh, this  _was_ fun. "You tried to save him. A sadistic psychopath such as yourself wouldn't care if he died if you were truly done with him. In fact, you would have seen it as better because then he wouldn't have been able to testify against you and I might never have been able to prove anything against you. You knew Mycroft was the only one with the potential to testify against you, and if he died, there would be no direct link, since I'm sure you're more than well-versed in how to dispose of bodies."

"But you tried to save him. Panicked, even, at the thought that he was going to die, according to a rather key witness to the whole episode that you didn't even notice was a plant from Anthea's team. You didn't want him to die at all; you had to keep him alive because you wanted him to come crawling back to you, and are only angry now because he never did. And please, before you try to feed me some insignificant tripe about how you don't want him to come back, you just expect him to, or whatever nonsense you say to stay in control, I saw that video. Or at least part of that video, and while I must say a large part of my brain was focused on deleting the image of my brother half naked, the other part was watching your expressions. And that wasn't just lust in your eyes, Neil, it was obsession. A deep, unhealthy obsession that you've been carrying in regards to my brother for years, and an obsession like that doesn't simply go away, especially not after all the time and energy you've invested in your little chase after Mycroft. So please, spare me your egotistical lies about how Mycroft is so much more attached than you are and how pathetic the whole thing is, and how you were done with him after all this. We both know that that's not true in the slightest. You're the one who chased after him, you're the one who stayed obsessed with him year after year, you're the one who saved him from dying because you weren't done with him yet. Mycroft was the most interesting thing you had in your life, and even after years apart, you couldn't find anything nearly as interesting or entertaining as him. Say what you want about my brother, but to someone as ordinary as you, he's fascinating. Add in your sadism and my brother's regrettable emotional vulnerability, and you had the perfect mate. You're just upset that you lost him again."

\-----------------------------

Something almost wicked flickered briefly through Mycroft's steely blue eyes before he answered Greg. Not a bad sort of wicked; more of the kind of wicked that made something flutter low in the DI's stomach and his already pounding heart to start beating faster. Though before Greg could comment, Mycroft had leaned into him, those addictive lips pressing against the line of his jaw, tilting his head back. Mycroft murmured something lovely about his 'unnecessary' concern as he continued working his sinfully warm lips against his skin. Then that amazing mouth was working down the side of his throat, whispering reassurances between languid kisses. Greg stilled, brain all but shutting off as Mycroft teased his way down the muscles along the side of his neck. A slight nip of teeth right above his collarbone drew a soft, choked noise from Greg. His legs went rubbery from the surge of blood that rushed from all other points of his body to his groin; the combination of Mycroft's tongue soothing the slightly bitten spot and the sudden shift in mood leaving his head spinning.

As caught off guard as Greg was by the exquisitely teasing touches, he was even more unprepared for the rather sweet words that Mycroft was saying. His brain was too fogged with the feel of Mycroft pressed against him, lips traveling over the opposite side of his throat, to really pick out the exact phrase. But the gist was loud and clear, especially when coupled with such tantalizing touches. The desire and sentiment that Lestrade felt towards the extraordinary man pressed tightly against him were, against all comprehension, both returned. Greg's heart gave a strong set of contractions; emotion tightening his chest as he realized that despite everything he’d been through in such a short amount of time, Mycroft still wanted this. Wanted  _him_ . It was as dizzying as it was inexplicable, and entirely welcome.

_"Mycroft, god._ " It took Greg's brain a moment to register that the words hadn't just been in his head, that he was arching his back and had moaned them as the politician's hand wandered from the small of the Lestrade's back around to the curve of his hip. Before the rather stunned DI could regain any kind of bearing Mycroft let his elegant fingers wander along his hip, toying with the edge of his waistband, the sensation sending a full body shudder through the entranced DI. Lestrade couldn't help the soft, needy noises that issued forth as every one of his senses was completely surrounded by and overwhelmed with the sheer presence of Mycroft. Flashes of pale, freckled skin and blue eyes danced in an out of his vision, the warmth of the politician's body radiating against his chest, the smell of linen and expensive cologne, the feel of soft cotton and auburn hair under his fingers, the taste of gin and Mycroft on his lips; it was almost overwhelming the amount of sensory input. He was spellbound, absolutely and completely tangled up in a perfect web of desire, elation, gratitude, and overwhelming affection.

“God Mycroft," he breathed again, desperately trying to get words out around the crush of affection and lust that had his lungs in a vice. "Want doesn't even begin to cover it." Greg wasn't at all surprised by the breathlessness of his voice; Mycroft had really done a number on him in all the best ways. His brain took a half second to try and recall the last time anyone had kissed him like that, had made him feel so wanted. It only took a moment for him to realize that he didn't have to worry about calculating that because he was with Mycroft, who beyond all reasonable expectations, seemed to want Greg just as badly as the DI wanted him.

"Please," he murmured, surging forward into a kiss that was a good deal more delicate than he meant it to be. Greg didn't even know what he was asking for at that point; perhaps only wanting to convey that he never, ever wanted to stop. Strong fingers tangled themselves in the soft cotton of Mycroft's white shirt, fist pressing against the small of the politician's back as he struggled to keep himself upright. Any last shred of resistance was pushed to the very back of Greg's mind, only the ghost of his better judgement remaining as he gave himself over completely to the combined force of his and Mycroft's mutual desire.

\-----------------------------

There were a million points that he could use to counter Sherlock's accusations, Neil knew. That being caught with the corpse of one of the most prolific members of MI6 (or whatever the fuck shadowy agency it was that Mycroft worked for) was practically signing his own death warrant. That kidnapping, even when combined with all his other crimes, didn't carry nearly as heavy a sentence as murder. That he simply wasn't going to allow Mycroft to 'win', to prove that even his exit from his miserable existence was under Neil's control. But not a damned one of them were true.

Sherlock was right, and it  _burned_ .

It  _would_ have been better all around if he had just let the auburn haired bastard die. Certainly it was what Mycroft wanted, and it would have saved this entire bloody disaster from having happened. But Neil had panicked. Had allowed a doctor to be brought in that he didn't recognize, that he didn't take time to have vetted. That particular piece of news stung quite a bit; he hadn't known that the physician was a plant from Mycroft's team. Well, there was nothing for it now. Neil could consider all the options, the possibilities, and berate himself for a poorly executed plan in privacy. He sure as fuck wasn't going to do it in front of Sherlock Holmes.

"This entire conversation has become tiresome," he snarled, leveling Sherlock with a hateful green glare that had leveled hardened criminals with the force of its ire. "Why don't you quit fucking grandstanding and just tell me what you want, so we can negotiate terms and I can get you to leave?"

\-----------------------------

It was very apparent that Greg's assertion that 'want' wasn't a strong enough word was absolutely true. Mycroft felt his blood racing ever faster at Greg's responses to his advances, every little noise from the DI causing something hot and sharp to shoot through his blood, all of which was rapidly being redirected because god, Greg's self-control eroding right beneath Mycroft's very hands and lips was an aphrodisiac like no other. True, Mycroft had already seen a glimpse of the effect he had on the DI--a rather strong one, considering the deep flush that came with rolled up shirt sleeves and a few loose buttons--but it was entirely different to witness it with his own eyes, to tangibly feel it underneath his fingertips. It had been so long since Mycroft had been in control in a situation like this, especially considering his tryst with Neil, and it was a heady feeling, taking the lead and knocking Greg off balance instead of being the one who was reeling.

It allowed him to keep a somewhat clear head, actually, or rather the reverse; rather than immediately being knocked into near senselessness because of the noise in his mind quieting down, he was still aware of it enough that he could focus on Greg and ease into things, work the DI up before he allowed himself to give in to that lovely, mindless haze. Mycroft hadn't realized just how reassuring it felt to have control over the situation, to not be trapped underneath someone he hated while they teased and berated him into something he didn't really want, to be able to step away anytime he wanted without consequence. Though with the way Greg's voice sounded when he said Mycroft's name, the last thing he wanted to do was step away.

In fact, when Greg's hand tightened into a fist around the back of Mycroft's shirt, the DI seeming slightly off balance, Mycroft easily pressed him back against the edge of the counter, providing them both a little stability and pressing his hips flush against Greg's in a way that made a slight groan slip from his lips, using sheer power of will to stop himself from grinding his groin more deeply against the DI's. His hand quickly moved between them, beginning to quickly unbutton the buttons on Greg's shirt, starting from the bottom and working his way up because if there wasn't less clothing between them  _now,_ he wasn't sure what he was going to do. As his fingers worked, he resumed kissing Greg until the shirt was completely undone, at which point he nipped at the DI's lip and pulled back to say breathlessly, "Perhaps it would be best if we moved this to the bedroom."

\-----------------------------

Oh good, finally something had gotten through to Neil, though the criminal was doing his best to cover the tiny crack in his armor with as much anger as he could muster. Which, at the moment, was quite a bit. True, the gaze that he leveled Sherlock could have been considered impressive, but Sherlock's eyes were just as cutting and infinitely colder as he met Neil's eyes. He really couldn't contain the self-satisfied smile that had taken over his features, overall just too pleased with the effect he'd had on Neil. It was a microscopic fraction of what the bastard really deserved for everything he'd put Mycroft through, but it was at least progress.

And, oh, how funny, that Neil was trying to reduce this to a business negotiation, something he had more experience with and could exert more control in. Well, fine. If he wanted to discuss terms, Sherlock was more than willing. "I'm not so ignorant as to believe that my brother is entirely free of your influence, whether you remain in prison or not. Though the chances of your release are growing increasingly slim, it remains a possibility and I have no illusions about being able to negotiate with you if you are released. I won't have any control over you, though I'm sure the British Government will have more than a few surprises waiting for you."

"I also know that you are perfectly capable of orchestrating attacks against my brother while still incarcerated. Your networking skills must come in quite handy in prison, I'm sure," he said with a wry twist of his lips. "So unfortunately, I understand that it would be all too easy for you to organize some type of retribution against my brother, or even just get a message out to him." Which, Sherlock knew, could quite easily destroy all of Mycroft's hard-won progress. "I'm here to ensure none of that happens. If you're released, there's not much I can do to negotiate with you. But here... well, prisoners can also be bought, Neil. I can put you in just as much danger as you put Mycroft in."

\-----------------------------

Mycroft spun them so that he was the one pressed back against the counter, and all Lestrade could manage was a soft groan that answered the tantalizing noise that the politician himself had made when reversing their positions. The counter at his back would have offered a bit of support, perhaps even have made it easier to stand altogether, but then Greg's hips were flush with Mycroft's and it felt as if the ground dropped out from underneath him. Not an entirely unpleasant sensation; quite the opposite in fact. The rush left him giddy and light headed; the room seemed to spin around the central point of all his attention. That fixed point at the center of his spinning universe, of course, was Mycroft.

Mycroft-the-bloody-British-government Holmes, whose aristocratic fingers were working as enthusiastically at his shirt buttons as those soft lips were working at his mouth. His own hands fumbled through a reciprocation, working at Mycroft's buttons with as much care as he could muster. Which, if he was being honest with himself, wasn't all that much. The handsome politician pressed up against him had the most wonderful way of unraveling every ounce of Greg's carefully cultivated self control. Ordinarily the feeling of his restraint eroding out from underneath him would leave the DI feeling lost or worried, but all he could feel was a surge of heat and an almost overwhelming sensation of both want and being wanted.

"Good lord yes," he managed to pant out in response to Mycroft's suggestion to move to a room more suited to their activities. Greg punctuated the words with a heated kiss, shifting himself against the counter so that his hips canted up against Mycroft's. The feel of the politician firm against his own hardened length causing yet another shudder to run through him, and he gasped as he leaned forward to whisper in Mycroft's ear. "Just be warned that if you tire me out too badly that offer to cook dinner is off the table." A series of light kisses around the shell of his partner's ear transitioned easily into his teeth and lips grazing the curve of his earlobe before trailing down to bite and suck at the hollow between ear and jaw.

"At least for tonight, anyway. Not like you're not offering something about a million times more appetizing." His words were a low rumble in his chest, the DI practically purring them out as his fingers hurriedly worked at the last of the closures on Mycroft's shirt. Finally Greg managed to finish working the last of those damned buttons free and immediately slid both his arms around Mycroft's waist. The silver haired DI's broad hands traveled upwards to rest against the warmth of the politicians shoulder-blades before he dragged his short nails lightly down either side of his spine in a gesture that was meant to do nothing but tease. He gave his companion a wicked grin, brown eyes lit with mischief, playful smile inviting the gorgeous man in front of him to reciprocate.

\-----------------------------

Sherlock met Neil's frigid gaze with an equally cold stare of his own, absinthe green eyes flashing underneath the fluorescent lights of the visiting room. Neil couldn't help but wonder exactly what had happened to the younger Holmes brother that left him so impassive, so entirely separated from his personal feelings. It was impressive; Sherlock appeared to have managed the exact countenance that Mycroft had spent his life striving for. A strange feeling of respect coursed through the older man, tendril brushing the back of his mind briefly before evaporating and leaving him wholly settled in the moment. Like recognized like, and Neil certainly recognized Sherlock. The dark haired detective was detached, dangerous. Completely goal driven, uninhibited by general societal morals and niceties.

"So you're proposing a stalemate, then. If no unfortunate accidents befall your dear brother, then I can assume that I'll have similar luck for the duration of my stay in this lovely establishment. For however long that may be." Neil carefully pitched his tone of voice to indicate that he still thought it wouldn't be long at all until he was freed. The older blonde gave a sigh and a shrug, smiling coolly as he reached across the table in a gesture of acceptance, offering his hand for the deal-sealing handshake.

"I'll stay out of Mycroft's hair, and in turn you'll stay out of mine. Acceptable terms, I suppose. Shall we shake on it and call it a day, then?" Green eyes carefully weighed Sherlock's body language and expression. Neil smiled blankly as he inspected the other man for any sign of deception while waiting to see if the detective accepted his hand.

\-----------------------------

Oh, Greg seemed to have regained himself enough to reciprocate, and reciprocate _fantastically_. It was all Mycroft could do to not moan wantonly as Greg canted his hips up, pressing his arousal against Mycroft's own, managing to transmute the noise into a low, appreciative sound, though his good hand had to grip the counter behind Greg to keep his balance. Before he could recover, Greg was whispering breathlessly in his ear as his teeth and lips traveled along Mycroft's ear, pausing to suck along the curve of his jaw in a way that had the politician's breath hitching in his throat and his hips pressing more fully against Greg's. They stopped short of blatantly grinding against Greg, but his hips did stutter up slightly of their own accord, pressed completely against Greg. And god did Greg have a wonderful seductive purr. It made something hot flutter in Mycroft's lower abdomen, his body automatically responding to the suggestion laden in every word. And then Greg's hands were against his bare skin, and Mycroft shivered at the nails being raked down his back, the moan he'd been holding in coming out and sounding nearly pornographic.

"Mon dieu," he breathed out, slipping into another language as easily as breathing. He shook himself out of French, moving back into English to say in response to Greg's comment, "That's what takeaway is for," and then his lips were sucking at a point just below Greg's collarbone, needing to taste more of the DI, feel more of him, have all of him. It was so hard to focus on the need to move to the bedroom when he was caught up in the addictive properties of Gregory Lestrade, busy cataloging as he traveled his way across the planes of the man's chest. If it wasn't unsanitary and more than a little improper, Mycroft would have been very happy to have sex right there in the kitchen, food-grade surfaces be damned.

But it wouldn't be right, certainly not for their first time together, so he pulled away from Greg with some effort, latching onto the DI's hand and pulling him towards Mycroft's bedroom, though the DI needed little urging. When they reached it, Mycroft immediately pushed Greg back on the bed, straddling his hips and leaning down to kiss the DI again because not being connected at the lips with the DI right now sounded unthinkable. Who needed oxygen anyway?

\-----------------------------

Sherlock's eyes flicked over Neil's face and body as he tried to determine the veracity of Neil's acceptance of the deal. He found no hints of dishonesty, but it was clear that the criminal still thought he was going to make it out of here. It was almost funny; Neil seemed to have no idea that the entirety of the British government now had a vendetta against him and was most assuredly going to make sure that the blonde stayed exactly where he was and rotted away inside a tiny cell. Sure, there was a slight chance of Neil getting out, but even if he did, his life would be nothing but a living hell and he would find his every move watched and recorded. He certainly wouldn't be able to get within even a mile radius of Mycroft, and any attempts to contact the other man would be swiftly shut down. Neil Gibson wasn't much of a threat anymore, and the thought allowed Sherlock to reach out to shake Neil's hand, though he dropped it as quickly as he could out of distaste.

"Glad to see we agree," he said, and stood, having accomplished his goal in coming here. One, to get Neil to agree to leave his brother be for the time being, and two, to take the man down a few notches by highlighting the things the other man was certainly denying to himself. He smiled coolly at Neil, though there was a hint of satisfaction in his pale eyes. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Gibson, and please do enjoy your stay here," he said, and then it was back out the doors, coat flaring behind him. One less thing for Mycroft to worry about, one more thing done to repay his brother for all the things he'd done for Sherlock. That list seemed to be getting longer and longer, and Sherlock had to wonder if he would ever really be able to pay back his older brother. In all likelihood, no. But he could still try his best, and he intended to, for however long it took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with us during our prolonged and unexpected hiatus! A flurry of health and work complications (and various combinations / complications thereof) kept us away from this project for much longer than we would have liked. We certainly appreciate the patience, well wishes, and general awesomeness we've gotten from all of you during this trying time. Fortunately, things are looking up and TYSK is back on track! Rest assured, dear friends, that we're going to start posting again on a regular basis. Perhaps not as frequently as before, but we aim to have at least one update a month from here on out.
> 
> Big hugs to all of you. Now for your 'real' prize! Your reward for making it this far is that this is the last chapter with Neil! Hurray!!!! <3 <3 <3 From here on out, it's all Mystrade all the time. Enjoy. <3
> 
> Hugs,  
> Mazi and Cheshire


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is no more Neil, no more Sherlock; just solely Mystrade fluffy, sexy goodness. 
> 
> Chapter warnings. Fluff and smut! (See, we promised, and we (small voice - eventually) delivered!) Possibly small amounts of residual angst.

The way that Mycroft shivered under Greg's nails caused a reciprocal shudder to run through the DI's body. It didn't help that each and every movement, no matter how small, only served to press them closer. With the way that their hips were aligned each tiny shift in position caused heat to course along Greg's spine and flood his abdomen. Every breath the other man took while pressed so tightly against him caused sparks to skitter down every one of Greg's nerves; each barely restrained noise causing Lestrade's pulse to thunder in his ears. Pulses of the same beat echoed through his veins, causing every muscle in Greg’s body to tighten in delicious anticipation, leaving him suspended on a knife’s edge to see if Mycroft’s steely self possession or his own stubborn resolve gave out first.

As Mycroft moaned, finally releasing the tight hold that he had on his verbalization, Greg couldn't help the answering groan that resounded low in his own throat. Mutual ‘defeat’. Well, more like mutual bliss, really. Before he could even come up with a response that wasn't just a guttural expression of lust, the politician was blaspheming in French, and any shred of hope left that Lestrade had of slowing things down melted away. Not that it appeared Mycroft had any intention of letting the DI put the brakes on their current activities, the man lowering his clever mouth to work hungrily at his chest in a way that had Greg reaching behind him to grasp the counter simply so he could stay upright.

"Je ne savais pas que vous parlez français," he managed to choke out in a whisper, French feeling strange on his lips after so many years of disuse. Greg's recall certainly wasn't helped any by the way that Mycroft's lips and tongue were moving across his chest, velvety soft and searingly hot and altogether overwhelming. Part of him wanted to thread his fingers through the politician's auburn hair, his hands reflexively tightening their grip on the counter. Fortunately, the single brain cell that wasn't completely devoted to soaking in the wealth of delicious sensation that Mycroft was providing kindly reminded the DI that if he let go they'd both likely end up on the floor.

Without warning those entrancing lips pulled away from him, Mycroft shifting away so that their bodies were no longer touching. It was all Greg could do to not cry out in protest, desperately needing to feel Mycroft against him again. He was temporarily mollified, though, when long fingers intertwined themselves with his own shorter digits. A gentle tug goaded the DI into moving, drawing him down the hallway and into the villa's spacious master bedroom. Mycroft's smoldering blue gaze was the very definition of "bedroom eyes". He even tried to say something to his companion about the positively ravenous look in his eyes, but all he got out was a choked "I-" before he was silenced by the sensation of the mattress hitting the back of his legs. They stood together there for a moment, the inevitable destination of their amorous activities pressed gently up against the back of Greg's knees. God, when had Mycroft even maneuvered him around to that position, let alone backed him up against the bed? Not that the DI's mind had any chance to try and calculate their movements because one elegant hand had splayed itself against his bare chest, pushing him gently down. The captivated DI had a mere split second to contemplate their new arrangement before the surprisingly lithe politician settled over his hips. In fact, he didn't even have time to gasp out a response because Mycroft's lips were against his again, and he moaned into the embrace, completely unable to withhold any reaction from from the eager man atop him. The pressure against Greg's groin and mouth caused Lestrade to arch his back up, seeking out as much contact as he possibly could.

The silver haired DI was delighted to have his hands finally free, no longer needing to hold onto any counters to support himself. He raked his fingers through Mycroft's auburn hair, taking delight in the sensation and as well as the intimacy of the act. After all, very few people were allowed to muss the coiffure of Mycroft Holmes, or at least Greg assumed. Lestrade returned the kiss as passionately as he could; with his mind reeling he was relying on rather rusty muscle memory to guide him along. Still, he did his best to answer politician's eager embrace with lips and tongue and teeth as he slid his hands from the back of Mycroft's head to run along the planes of his back. His digits finally settled along the curvature of Mycroft's hipbones. Sharp pangs of want coursed through his system as he brushed the pad of his thumb along the delicate curvature of one hipbone through the thin material of Mycroft's trousers, dizzy beyond belief with want and quite possibly with lack of oxygen as well.

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Why did they always go for the hair? Almost every person Mycroft had slept with, from Neil to this very moment with Greg, had seemed to derive particular pleasure from running their fingers through his hair to muss it, taking control over it entirely and letting their fingers play havoc with it. Why they enjoyed it so much was entirely lost on him, but he supposed that it was another sign of his usual decorum and control, and people did so love stripping him of those. There was little left of his mind to consider it, however, because due to the change in position Greg was pressing up against him, and the feel of Greg's hardened length against his own caused another heated moan to release itself from his throat, muffled though it was by the contact between Greg's lips and his own.

Then Greg's hands were moving from his hair to slide down his back, their warm weight felt even through the shirt that wasn't entirely off yet, and the thought of them running over his bare skin again crossed into something much more eager as Greg's fingers settled on one of his hipbones, the touch almost delicate and gentle. He instantly pressed forward into the contact, bringing a slight friction between their groins that caused his next words to come out breathlessly against Greg's ear. "Do you want to feel those more?" he whispered, kissing along the shell of Greg's ear even as he lightly trailed his index finger down the middle of Greg's chest, the contact light, teasing. "Hold onto them while you fuck me?" The swear was a calculated move, considering the fact that most people enjoyed seeing him slowly lose his careful control and he doubted Greg would be an exception considering the way his hands had automatically gone to his hair. Good that he still had enough of his wits to make deductions in bed, though that was going to disappear quickly.

His long fingers stopped at the DI's waistband for a moment, just brushing along his skin right at the edge. "How would you like me, Greg? Spread out across the bed underneath you? On my hands and knees? Or somewhere you could see my every expression?" His voice couldn't quite be qualified as a purr considering the fact that he was out of breath and his voice was thick with lust, but that didn't mean he couldn't be eloquent with his dirty talk. His fingers finally started working at the DI's belt, quickly undoing it and moving on to Greg's trousers, more than eager to get the DI out of more of his clothing. "Tell me, Greg, and let me make it happen. I am your host; it's only right of me to be accommodating." The last word was indeed purred, and punctuated by his hand slipping into Greg's trousers to palm the source of the DI's excitement through his pants.

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The way that Mycroft's hips moved forward to press into his hands was enough to make Greg release a sharp, breathy gasp. Clever lips delivered a series of kisses around the curve of his ear, each feather light brush against his skin sending something hot and sharp coursing through each of the DI's already overwhelmed nerves. Greg felt a full body shudder run through him as the normally language-conscious politician practically purred out the word 'fuck'. Good lord, Mycroft was... was.... Words failed him as the stately politician leaned in closer, that sinfully tempting mouth of his whispering the most alluring potential paths for their evening to take as those adroit fingers traveled down his chest. Each suggestion called up a vivid mental image to accompany Mycroft's provocative words. The brilliant politician laid out underneath him, pale throat bared as he gasped his pleasure, long legs wrapped around Greg's waist as he drove the taller man into the mattress. Mycroft on his knees and elbows, the elegant arc of his spine mapped by Greg's opened mouthed kisses as the DI wrapped one arm around the man's waist and pulled their bodies closer together. Lestrade on his back, Mycroft atop him with his torso arching and thighs tensing as he drove himself down onto Greg's eager length.

Every image was washed away completely when those teasing aristocratic fingers finally,  ** finally ** started to work at his belt buckle, and Lestrade gasped out his appreciation. Every minute shift of fabric against him was enough to make his eyes nearly roll back in his head. Greg had to bite his lower lip to keep from making what he assumed would be an undignified assortment of keening noises. Mycroft's voice was a sensuous mixture of raw lust and calculated words; the conflicting combination only serving to further heighten Greg's own arousal as the newly emboldened politician worked the zip of his trousers down. Mycroft's voice was thick with suggestion as he purred out a nearly pornographic offer to be accommodating, all but demanding that Greg tell him what it was that he wanted the politician to do.

"A-ah!" The silver haired DI could only manage a sharp cry on his on his first attempt at speech, the heat of Mycroft's hand searing even through the thin barrier of his cotton boxers. "I don't... I c-can't... I want anything...  _ every _ thing... you. Just you... God  _ Mycroft  _ _** please ** _ _." _

If his tone was a bit imploring, surely he could be forgiven. Certainly there was nothing more that Greg wanted than more of what he was already being offered. More of Mycroft; those soft lips, that clever tongue, that silken expanse of freckled skin. More of those heated kisses, more breathless moans, more exquisite friction. Anything more specific than that was lost in the tidal wave of voracious lust that coursed through him. Sentences started to form in his mind, only to be roughly torn apart into nearly incoherent fragments as Mycroft's long fingers continued to apply the perfect amount of teasing pressure and friction against his arousal. If things moving forward were going to be dependent on Greg giving Mycroft some sort of intelligible answer they were both hopelessly out of luck. Words, never exactly the DI's strong suit, had completely failed him. All he could do was bring one hand up from Mycroft's hip to curl around his bicep, tugging on both points to pull the politician just a little bit closer in a gesture of unmitigated entreaty.

\-------------------------

It was hard to focus on what he was doing when Greg cried out like that, Mycroft's entire body immediately wanting to focus on how to produce more noises like that from the DI. Even better were the words that Greg barely managed to get out, fragments of sentences as the DI practically begged Mycroft for anything, really. The way the other man said his name had Mycroft's head nearly submerged in a flood of lust, and pulling himself back out of it enough to think coherently was an effort. How to proceed was something that was evidently left up to him to decide, since Greg seemed past the point of words and continuing in that direction, if his response to Mycroft's question was to just pull him closer by his hip and good arm. God did he love seeing Greg like this, knowing that he was the one who'd produced this reaction in the DI. Every gasp, every cry, every moan laid out for him, each detail of course filed somewhere in the back of his brain so he could remember how to produce the same reactions in the DI. Not that that would be difficult, considering how easy it was now to wind Greg up.

But he wanted to do much more than wind him up and that required some coherency on Mycroft's part and at least some small amount of sense. As easy as it was to surrender to the heated rush of his blood, there was some practicality required. "Gregory," he breathed, removing his hand from its currently compromising position so Greg at least had a chance of focusing, "while I want nothing more than for you to fuck me senseless in this bed, I'm going to need you to focus for a minute so we can make that happen properly. Can you do that for me?"

He waited for the other man's nod before rewarding him with a sultry smile, giving the DI another heated kiss before slipping off of him entirely to stand and pulling Greg with him. He lay on his back on the bed, spreading his legs widely and invitingly to the DI, canting his hips up slightly in an obvious invitation. If Greg wasn't going to make a choice then Mycroft would, and this was the position that would put the least stress on his shoulder and injured arm. Really he didn't give a fuck what position they were in, as long as things quickly sped up from here.

\-------------------------

The sound of Mycroft breathing out his name pulled Greg back from the very pleasant but all-consuming haze he had been lost in. Dexterous fingers withdrew themselves from Greg's length, drawing a muffled groan of protest from the DI, though he bit back the noise as much as he could. Though Lestrade tried to focus on the entirety of Mycroft's words rather than the particularly explicit opening offer, his hips did involuntarily press up against the politician's when the man confessed to wanting Greg to fuck him senseless. Biting the inside of his cheek to give himself some semblance of concentration, Greg carefully listened to the rest of Mycroft's sentence, the words making him flush half from embarrassment and half from lust. Right. Of course. There were of course certain things that needed to be taken care of before they could progress any further. Like stripping down, for one. If Greg had a free hand it would have immediately gone to his silver hair. How did he let himself get quite so lost in sensation that he'd been allowing Mycroft to do all the work? It wasn't usually like that with his partners; the DI considered himself more of a 'give and take' sort of bloke rather than one of those that was selfishly focused on his own needs. But something about that skilled mouth and the way Mycroft felt pressed against him had him completely spun; falling-down-drunk on lust. Thank god Mycroft had put a stop to that and managed to get Lestrade to regain his focus, or he very well might have come in his pants like an eager teenager for all the self control he had been able to muster with the politician's fingers wrapped around him.

It took a few deep breaths and no small amount of focus to pull himself together just enough to nod his agreement, though he was knocked dizzy again by the heated crush of the politician's mouth against his own slightly sore lips. Then Mycroft was pulling away, causing a moan of protest to tighten in Greg's throat. An insistent tug in the DI's abdomen seemed directly tied to the man's movements; his torso arching as the burning thread inside him pulled taut, causing a sweet but sharp pulse of pleasure to course through him from head to toe. His objections at being separated lasted for hardly longer than a second, though, as Mycroft pulled him easily along after him. They stood together at the edge of the mattress with their bodies flush against one another, Greg trying desperately to control his breathing and regain some semblance of clarity. Mycroft pulled away, gracefully leaning back onto the bed and spreading himself out in what was quite possibly the most attractive yet dignified display of lust that Greg had ever seen. When the politician gave a slight, suggestive thrust of his hips towards him a needy groan worked its way free from the DI. Fighting to keep his head above the powerful current of desire that was coursing through him, Greg bit into his lower lip and moved forward to join Mycroft on the bed.

Greg followed his partner down onto the mattress, movements slightly less graceful but equally eager. He settled on his knees between the politician's spread legs, taking a moment to control his breathing as he surveyed the breathtaking scene below him. Mycroft Holmes, a debauched mess with his shirt open and his hair in disarray, trousers straining with the evidence of his arousal He let his hands wander slowly up the insides of Mycroft's thighs, fingertips skirting over the sensitive juncture between thigh and groin, before settling on the politician's belt. Hastily, he worked the supple leather through the buckle and tossed it aside, fingers moving back to immediately begin working on the zip of Mycroft's now-rumpled trousers. Mycroft (brilliant bastard that he was, of course) followed his line of thought immediately, canting his hips upwards so Greg could tug both trousers and pants down in one easy motion. Pulling back off the mattress he stripped them off Mycroft completely, while toeing off his shoes. A split second later he was tugging down his own already-unfastened trousers, discarding them in a heap on the floor. With an appreciative smile he raked his eyes over his partner's pale frame, promising himself that when things weren't driven with quite so much urgency he'd memorize every single freckle, every light dusting of ginger hair. At that moment, though, Greg found himself incapable of doing anything but resuming his previous position on the mattress, kneeling himself between Mycroft's legs as he wrapped one hand around the dusky length of the politician's cock.

\-------------------------

The appreciative look that Greg gave him after settling between his legs was ridiculously filthy and absolutely perfect. Better was the touch of the DI's hands against his thighs, the way his fingers just brushed over the juncture between his thigh and groin bringing forth soft, plaintive noises that continued as Greg's hands skipped everything vital and settled on Mycroft's belt. Mycroft caught onto Greg's intentions and tilted his hips up when required, allowing the DI to strip him of both his trousers and pants, the sudden contact with the air allowing his heated flesh to cool some and a little of his wits to return to him, though that wasn't going to last long when Greg was stripping at the end of the bed. It was rushed, the DI obviously in a hurry to get to the main event--or course judging by the way he'd looked at Mycroft--but it didn't mean that Mycroft couldn't appreciate every inch of tanned skin that was revealed as Greg lost more and more of his clothing, and then finally the DI was on the bed again, right between Mycroft's legs where he was supposed to be.

And there was that appreciative and not a little lascivious gaze again, and Mycroft was about to comment on how the DI looked ready to positively  _ ravish  _ him when Greg's hand was wrapped around his length and he could only moan his appreciation at the much needed friction. A stuttered gasp was next when Greg's hand began moving, Mycroft's hips stuttering up into the DI's grip in tandem with the hitches in his breathing. His body was practically aching with need, and the way those sinfully slow fingers were moving along his length had a tight heat tying itself into knots in his abdomen, his good arm only able to clutch at Greg's shoulder in an effort to get him to continue, yes, yes, continue driving him fucking insane.

That hand moved to the back of Greg's neck, pulling the DI's head down so he could kiss along his jaw, pausing to suck a dark mark just underneath the DI's ear as his hips tilted up into Greg's hand again, a gesture of entreaty. "Please," he breathed in Greg's ear, his breath hitching at a particular stroke. "Please, god,  _ Gregory _ ." He moved his hips up farther to contact Greg's own, desperate for more of the DI. "There's...there's a bottle in the bedside table, just  _ please _ ..." He found that he couldn't continue the sentence, back arching up off the bed as his head dropped back down, hand sliding back to Greg's shoulder. "Please, Gregory, I need you..."

\-------------------------

Everything about Mycroft was obscenely perfect, from the way that the man's arousal felt hot and heavy in Greg's hand, to the way that his hips canted in time with each of his breathless gasps. Lestrade kept the movement of his hand slower than what would have generally been considered polite, but only because he wanted to drink in every single sight laid out before him. The slight arch to Mycroft's back as he thrust up into the DI's hand; the movement of pale skin over the muscles of his chest and abdomen as the politician tried to control his breathing, the ecstatic look on those aristocratic features... Each and every single detail cracked through Greg's nervous system like lightning. It was too much, and at the same time all together not enough. 

He was so lost in every sweet sound gasped from those slightly swollen lips, every flutter of those lovely auburn lashes, that it was almost a shock when Lestrade felt the strong fingers of Mycroft's good hand close in around his shoulder. Taking the gesture for encouragement, Greg tightened his fist just a touch and began adding a slight twist of his wrist to every other upward stroke, being sure to trace his thumb over the damp, exposed head. Mycroft's fingers slid up from his shoulder to the back of his neck, tugging Greg downward so that the politician could lathe the sensitive spot just below the hinge of his jaw with an eager tongue and judicious application of teeth. At the same time, Mycroft's hips canted upwards, pushing himself both into Greg's grip and thanks to their new positioning, pushing their hips close together. There was hardly enough room for the DI to keep moving his hand, but he could feel the heat rolling off Mycroft's body; the sensation both addictive and encouraging him to shift his grip and keep going. Lestrade would have sworn at that exact moment that nothing in the world compared to the feel of being so close to the politician's naked skin, only to have himself disproved as Mycroft arched up into his touch, bringing their bare skin together in places as he whispered a single entreaty into Greg's ear.

" _ Please. _ "

Greg damn near bit through his lip to keep from coming right then and there. The next few seconds were a heady blur. More of Mycroft's wanton pleas filled the air between them, the sheer sound of them raking sharp nails of pleasure down the DI's spine. That much Greg was sure of. As he was equally sure that at some point Mycroft's head dropped back onto the bed, the action drawing a needy growl from his own throat. He craved every point of touch between them and mourned the loss of each shift that left their skin bereft of contact. But before he could follow those sinful lips and smoldering blue grey eyes Mycroft was panting out what sounded like half entreaty, half instruction to gather up supplies from the bedside table.

The normally reserved DI was hardly even aware of himself after that point, not fully aware of letting go of Mycroft's cock or knocking the clock off the table as he searched for the bottle that Mycroft had indicated. Slicking his fingers was only a vague memory, as was clambering back onto the bed and once again positioning himself between enticingly pale thighs. Nothing had any clarity at all until one sharp, needy moan from Mycroft as he circled the pad of his index finger around the muscled pucker of his entrance drew Lestrade back from the lust addled loud in his brain. Cautiously, carefully, he worked his finger in centimeter by centimeter, stopping for a moment when it sank in to the very last knuckle. God, it had been awhile since he'd done this. Years. Decades. Few things could have been more encouraging than the noises that Mycroft was making, though, so he continued to slowly work his digit in and out of the politician's crushingly tight passage. It felt like a small eternity before he felt ready to add a second, pushing in just as gently as before and curling both finger just-so, seeking out the firm feeling of Mycroft's prostate and smiling to himself as the man's entire body shuddered when he eventually found it.

\-------------------------

Mycroft's breathless entreaties seemed to be the just the urging that Greg needed to move things forward, the DI fumbling along the table before coming back with slicked fingers that had excitement fluttering in Mycroft's abdomen, though the other man seemed to be taking his sweet time with everything. Not that Mycroft minded Greg wanting to take in as much as he could of the situation, but there would be time for that later when they both were a little more patient and a little less high on each other. After all, Mycroft intended for this to be just the first of many times with Detective Inspector Lestrade in this bed, and he sincerely doubted that Greg would object to that sentiment. So he encouraged the DI with a needy, eager moan as he felt Greg's finger just circle around his entrance, the DI finally, slowly, beginning to work his finger into Mycroft. Oh, he'd forgotten how good this felt. It had been quite some time since his encounter with Neil, and that could hardly be considered pleasant. But Greg was being overly cautious, showing a somewhat dusty knowledge of how this all worked, and it was far too long before he managed to work a second finger in, try as Mycroft might to tempt him into it with noises that seemed to come out of their own accord.

And then Greg's fingers found something vital and a full body shudder went through Mycroft, sparks of pleasure igniting along his spine as he pushed himself back on Greg's fingers, more than eager for more of that sensation. He found it again and a gasp found its way out of his somewhat abused lips, followed by the breathless moan of, "Oh,  _ Gregory _ ." He was content, for the moment, to move his hips back against Greg's fingers continually, every touch against his prostate producing more noises and shivers that left him completely at Greg's mercy, not particularly caring what the other man did as long as he continued doing  _ this _ .

Mycroft's brain was rapidly shutting itself down, the quiet in his usually buzzing mind making it that much easier to surrender to sensation, his free hand moving to grip Greg's other hand like it was a lifeline to rational thought. Distantly, though, in some part of Mycroft's brain that was still aware, he realized that this wasn't enough and that the DI was taking this too slowly, his caution getting the best of him. It was up to Mycroft to take control then, needing more than Greg was giving him, and faster. His free hand wandered to the hand the DI was using to work him open, taking a gentle hold of it and manipulating it until Greg conceded and added a third finger, Mycroft groaning at the addition. His hips rocked back against Greg's hand again, all too eager to finish the preparation so he could finally, finally have the DI inside of him.

\-------------------------

The fervent way that Mycroft positively moaned his name as Greg dragged the tips of his fingers down across the sensitive gland inside him sent a wave of tightness through the DI's abdomen. Each surge of sensation tugged hard at the base of his cock, the DI's length throbbing in complementary time to the rhythmic pulsing and twitching of Mycroft's body around his fingers. The shudders that ran down Mycroft's body were hypnotic. Bordering on addictive. When combined with the slightest arch of the politician's lower back it was nearly enough to make Greg dizzy with want yet still keep him paralyzed. The silver haired DI was completely entranced by the sight of Mycroft bloody Holmes fucking himself on his fingers. It was easily the most erotic thing he had ever seen; the way that Mycroft's pale thighs flexed and his hips stuttered in desperate little thrusts, auburn hair in complete disarray against the crisp whiteness of the pillowcase, kiss reddened lips moaning in a way that made Greg have to consciously remember to breathe.

Long fingers tangled themselves with the digits on his free hand, pulling the breathless DI out of his nearly trance-like state. God, what was it about Mycroft that made it so easy to simply lose himself like that? With care that bordered on caution, the normally clear headed DI refocused his efforts to prepare Mycroft. Though the thought of where things were leading loomed at the back of his mind and threatened to sweep away the tattered bits of his lucidity and pull him right back into the mind-addling haze of lust he had just shaken off. Biting his lip to give his brain something else to focus on other than how fucking tight Mycroft felt, Greg worked his fingers in in and out of the other man. Though it appeared that the small circles he made with his fingers weren't nearly enough to satisfy his partner. Mycroft released the hold on Greg's hand. Wrapping elegant fingers around his wrist, the politician's thumb stroked over his palm and pressed insistently into his still-folded ring finger until the DI breathed a sigh of acquiescence and added the third digit. The answering wave of heat that Lestrade's body produced upon hearing the groan that tore itself free from Mycroft's pale, bared throat was enough to sear every nerve in the DI's system. Everything felt searingly hot, from Mycroft's body clenched around his fingers to the air in the room. The undulations of the politician's hips highlighting his own erection, flushed to a lovely dusky red, damp head partially exposed and  _ god _ , wasn't that the loveliest sight that Lestrade had ever taken in.

Unable to resist, Greg took his free hand and wrapped it loosely around Mycroft's length, the warm weight of it feeling so very right in his palm. After he gave a few experimental strokes, thumbing the head eagerly to distribute the not insignificant amount of precome that had been generated, he moved to stronger strokes. Each movement of his hand around the politician's cock was timed with a strategic thrust of his fingers deep into the other man. Greg hooked his fingers and drew them out slowly, using his thumb to trace gently along the stretched rim of muscle that marked the join of his body and Mycroft's. Evidently all his skills hadn't been lost to time; a few just needed to be taken off down the shelf and dusted off. Another eager thrust of his hand and twist of his wrist proved that; the way that the normally taciturn politician was gasping meant he had to at least be doing something right. Greg's own cock gave an interested twitch when the normally prim, aristocratic man below him gave a full body shudder and thrust himself eagerly down onto the DI's hand. Suddenly it was damn near more than he could bear and his body violently reminded him that he too had very pronounced, long ignored needs that were aching to be tended. The very last portion of his rational mind screamed out one word before being drowned out by the mounting, nearly overwhelming need that filled the DI. Still, Greg managed to pull himself together enough to stop stroking Mycroft's rather lovely cock and growl out his concern.

"Condoms," he managed to gasp out. "Mycroft, please god  _ please _ tell me you have condoms in the drawer too." The DI didn't remember seeing any, but Mycroft could have had a solid gold vibrator in there and Greg wouldn't have noticed. He was that eager to just retrieve the lube and that drunk on lust; nothing else registered. Now, the presence (or lack) of condoms seemed rather important. Not that he didn't trust Mycroft, and he had (in what seemed like a presumptive move at the time) gotten tested the week before he was due to depart for Greece. Even with his clean bill of health, it was something that they needed to agree on before moving forward, even if his own body ached in frustration as he slowed the thrust of his fingers enough for Mycroft to be able to answer.

\-------------------------

Oh god. It wasn't  _ fair  _ for Greg to do this to him, using both hands at the same time to completely take Mycroft apart on the sheets. It had already been so much, with Greg's fingers in him, teasing him open with light brushes against his prostate that had Mycroft's hips moving of their own accord, helping him fuck himself on Greg's fingers because  _ god _ , it just felt so fucking good. But then Greg was loosely wrapping a hand around his arousal, giving a few tentative strokes and several brushes of his thumb over the head before taking a firmer hold of him, and then Mycroft was drowning in pleasure as Greg's hands moved in tandem, the sensations created between them enough to make Mycroft lose his freaking mind. He wasn't aware of himself, every shudder and gasp and breathless moan coming out without a filter as his body did its best to say yes in every possible way it could. If he kept making noises like this then maybe Greg would never stop, and at the moment that sounded like the greatest thing ever to him. The only thing he wanted. His hand tightened on Greg's wrist as the DI's hand moved, fingers mercilessly rubbing against that all important gland in a way that made his hips only move more fervently, eager for more of the same.

But suddenly those magical fingers were slowing as Greg said something, the words coming through to Mycroft through the haze of lust that had settled quite comfortably over his brain. He pulled himself back into awareness with some difficulty--especially since Greg's fingers were still working him open, only a little more slowly now--as he tried to make sense of Greg's words. Oh,  _ condoms _ . Right, that was actually a very important step in this entire process, though he wasn't entirely sure that it was necessary in this case. Surely Greg wasn't the type to have loose, unprotected sex, and if Mycroft was anything, he was careful. Careful to the point that random spot checks of his chosen partner's health wasn't uncommon, as paranoid as it made him seem. Perhaps he had just been spoiled by his relationship with Neil, where his own health hadn't been a question because of virginity and Neil had been extremely careful before him, and condoms hadn't even been considered as an option. But he was supposed to be answering Greg, not thinking about the past. Right. Though, actually, thinking of the past allowed him to cool down enough to think and string words together into necessary sentences.

He nodded quickly, an affirmative to Greg's query. "In...in the bottom of the drawer," he managed to pant out, eyes fluttering open again to look at Greg. "But I'm clean, Gregory, so please god only use them if you need to." It took him a moment to spit out more, as his hips had only temporarily slowed in their movements and a particular thrust of them made him gasp, head dropping back against the bed, his throat bared. "And--please--make a decision as quickly as possible," he managed to gasp out, and at that point his brain decided to short circuit and he found himself lost in a daze, entirely open and available to Greg Lestrade.

\-------------------------

Greg had almost withdrawn his hand when Mycroft indicated that there were (thank every god that ever existed and a few that probably hadn't) condoms in the bedside table, but the flutter of auburn lashes froze him in the act. Mycroft's pupils were so dilated that the silvery blue grey of his iris was a thin crescent around a pool of deep black. The intensity of his gaze sent a shiver through Greg's spine, causing his hand to tremble a bit as well which caused Mycroft to gasp and oh, that was possibly the most exquisite thing that Lestrade had ever been privy to in his entire life. Then words followed, softly gasped out between moans as Mycroft sank back onto the mattress, throat bared in a gesture of absolute bliss and Greg thought for a moment that perhaps he was dying, or had died; drowning in the indescribable eroticism of the moment as somehow Mycroft managed to make a confirmation of his health impossibly sexy. The way his voice hitched as he all but demanded that Lestrade not use a condom unless he deemed it necessary made Greg moan along with him because god, fuck, god yes... he was going to fuck Mycroft Holmes with nothing between them. Another groan escaped him as the thought of the same slick heat that was clenched around his fingers surrounding his cock surged through him, causing his heartbeat to echo almost painful pulses in his groin. Fortunately the sensation was enough to break the spell he was under and spur him to movement.

Not content to ebb for long, the surge of need rushed through him once again; a desire that he sated but reaching his hand back behind Mycroft's head, cupping the base of his skull to pull the politician haired man up into a heated kiss. Without giving it much thought he rubbed his thumb in gentle circles in the soft auburn hair at the nape of his neck, the gesture  strangely tender while his other hand gave a few last, brisk thrusts before he withdrew his digits. Mycroft's body seemed to suck hungrily as he pulled away, resisting the pull of Greg's fingers as they exited his body. With a wet slide that still-tight clench of muscle released him, Mycroft slick and fluttering against Greg's hand for a moment before the DI broke their embrace and reared back. Unable to even form words he simply shook his head; no, no he was clean and Mycroft trusted him and at the moment it was almost too much to bear. The combination of lust and overwhelming affection for the man beneath him caused his heart to swell in his chest to the point of bursting, and he ran his clean hand across the curve of Mycroft's cheekbone along his throat, trailing it down his chest before placing it palm down over the politician's heart.

"God, you're fucking gorgeous." It was cliche, but so overwhelmingly true that Lestrade couldn't think of any better way to express the thought. With hands that were as gentle in their touch as they were rough to their texture, he urged Mycroft to pull one leg up, curling the lean limb around his hip to give them both a better angle. As his fingers closed around the base of his own cock (which he gave a warning squeeze to, just enough to take the edge off the building urgency), Greg had to bite back a moan of his own. Carefully, he grasped Mycroft's thigh to steady the man as his other hand guided his length to the exposed pucker of muscle between his deliciously creamy buttocks. As the head of his cock nudged against the slippery entrance the DI found himself murmuring a litany of curses and praise, his brain seemingly unable to form words other than 'Mycroft', 'fuck', 'God', 'perfect', and 'yes' as he sank slowly into the tight heat of the other man's body.

\-------------------------

Mycroft was lost in a sea of sensation up until the moment that Greg pulled him up for another kiss, all lips and teeth and tongue and the urgency they both felt because everything was close, so very close. What really anchored him back in reality, however, was the soft contact between Greg's thumb and the nape of Mycroft's neck, the DI's thumb working soft, affectionate circles even as his fingers quickly thrust into Mycroft a few more times before he withdrew them entirely. Mycroft had to bite back a whimper at the loss of contact, nearly biting down on Greg's lip as well before the DI sat back some, shaking his head in a signal that no, he was opting out of the condom because it wasn't necessary.  _ God yes _ , he would actually be able to completely feel Greg with nothing between them, and the thought was nearly enough to make him miss it when Greg's hand went to his cheek, then down his throat, and finally to his chest, where it rested over Mycroft's racing heart.

And then Greg was saying he was gorgeous and Mycroft was flushing even more than he already had, his unfortunate, old reactions to compliments coming back again. But god, Greg had no idea what he did when he said those things, had no idea that he was making Mycroft's heart pound for entirely different reasons, the damnable organ seized in a stranglehold of emotion as Mycroft was swept under a wave of affection and caring for the other man. If they weren't already in the middle of things, he would have jumped the DI right then and there, determined to express how he felt about the other man through any physical method he had at his disposal. But all thoughts scattered at the same time as Greg took a gentle hold of his leg, leading him to curl it around the DI's hip in order to give a better angle because oh fuck, they were almost there. Because then, yes, Greg was taking ahold of himself, and Mycroft could only seem to pick out the word 'perfect' from Greg's string of words as the DI slowly, so slowly, guided himself into the politician.

Mycroft couldn't help the tip of his head back once again, eyes slipping shut as his good hand went to Greg's free one, latching onto his wrist with long fingers that somehow managed to stroke along the DI's forearm to encourage him until he finally sank into Mycroft to the hilt, pausing to let Mycroft adjust to the stretch. The slight burn of it soon turned into the familiar, comfortable feeling of being filled, and with a soft moan and a slight tensing of his thighs, Mycroft tugged on Greg slightly with the leg curled around his hip to encourage him to move, please god move.

\-------------------------

Mycroft tipped his head back once more, exposing the long column of his throat as his stormy blue eyes fluttered shut, and Greg couldn't help but give an inarticulate moan at the luscious sight. Or perhaps the moan was because he was finally fully seated in his partner; the feel of hot, constricting muscle clenched tight around him making Lestrade groan again. It was a guttural, feral sound; the wordless tone reverberating through his throat as he stilled his hips for a moment to let Mycroft adjust to the intrusion. A soft, featherlight touch on his forearm helped anchor him to reality instead of being dragged away from thought by the same harsh need that had echoed through his throat just moments before. The same possessive, hungry need in him that growled a constant litany of  _ more, give me more, Mycroft,  _ _** my ** _ _ Mycroft _ over and over again to the point where it nearly strangled out every intention to be gentle and replaced it with a heated urge to simply take and take and take until they both lay breathless and sweaty, tangled and spent on the expensive sheets.

Instead, he focused on Mycroft's hand. Those long, aristocratic fingers were warm, soothing, and sweet. For a moment, just a fleeting second Greg let himself hope that whatever was unfolding between him and the British bloody Government was something that had its roots in something far deeper than just mutual understanding and sexual attraction. Because god, oh god did he want it. More than the sex, honestly, which was odd considering that Lestrade could very nearly feel Mycroft's heartbeat as his body tightened around the DI's fully-sheathed cock. It was stupid, overly sentimental, and probably so far off the mark that in any other circumstance it would be laughable. But circumstances were what they were, and oh lord were they quickly washing away any potential post-coital concerns. Mycroft gave a gentle tug at Greg's waist with his leg, causing the ghost of bitter, self deprecating laughter that had almost been vanquished by the enormity of sensation that simply being inside Mycroft produced to finally dissipate. Nothing remained but the heat of the lithe body beneath him, surrounding him, urging him gently to start moving.

That was something that the DI could easily accommodate. His body ached for the additional friction as much as Mycroft's did; his hips almost shaking with the effort it had taken to hold himself still for the politician to adjust. Urged on by another insistent press of Mycroft's leg, Lestrade moved his supporting hand to just underneath Mycroft's knee. With a gentle application of firm pressure from his broad palm, Greg steadied the other man and pulled himself back. Hastily taken breath hissed sharply through clenched teeth as cool air surrounded him, shocking Lestrade out of his languid pace. Withdrawing about halfway, Greg then pushed back into the welcoming warmth of his partner's body without hesitation, moaning at the slide of slick muscle that surrounded his length. Pulling out again, leaving little more than the head encased in Mycroft's crushing heat, the DI angled his hips to try and seek out the spot he had been pressing against with his fingers just moments earlier. A few experimental thrusts passed before he felt the head of his cock brush against a firm knot buried deep in his partner, and the way that Mycroft's body clenched down around him caused the building heat in his abdomen to focus into a tight knot that pulled everything inside him tight to the point where the pressure inside him straddled the border between ecstasy and pain.

"M-Mycroft. Ah. God, g-god yes." His words were all a mess, fragmented and fleeing his mind as he pushed into Mycroft with short, shallow thrusts angled to put as much pressure on the man's prostate as possible. His thighs burned slightly with the exertion and he knew that he'd likely pay for supporting and maneuvering both of them later but that was... well... later. Now all that mattered was urging Mycroft to make more of those lush, breathy moans that he kept gasping out on every inward push.

\-------------------------

Somehow, Mycroft managed to hold himself together for a few more minutes, managed to keep his head just above the surface of the lust and desire he was on the verge of drowning in. Soon, he knew, all too soon he was going to be submerged in sensation and the last of his rational thoughts would cease, but at the moment he could focus on drawing his fingers lightly along Greg's forearm as he urged the other man to move with his leg. Finally, Greg managed to recover himself enough to obey the command, drawing out and pushing back into Mycroft's more than eager body. The politician gasped at the renewed intrusion, but managed to hold out in the rational part of his mind. That only lasted a few more thrusts, after which Greg found the right angle and Mycroft stopped thinking.

His body instantly tightened, clenching around the DI as his thigh muscles tensed, the leg around Greg's hip tightening its hold to tell Greg please god yes do that again, and again, and again. It seemed the DI didn't need any encouragement, however, as he continued with short thrusts that hit their target nearly every time, and the switch in Mycroft's brain flipped. He wasn't aware of himself, wasn't aware of the breathless moans he made at every push, wasn't aware of the gasps and slight cries and the way his hand tightened over Greg's forearm, nails digging into the DI's skin as he held on for dear life, needing an anchor to avoid getting swept away completely.

Only he was being swept away anyway, completely consumed by the feel of Greg sliding in and out of him and the pressure building in his abdomen, a tight knot coiling in on itself. His hips lifted of their own accord, back arching as he moved to meet Greg's hips more fully, the pain from bracing himself with his injured shoulder washed away by the sheer enormity of the pleasure he was currently experiencing. "God,  _ Gregory _ , please, please, god, more--" The most his brain was capable of at the moment was the words 'Gregory' 'more' 'please' and 'god', but he wasn't even currently aware of what was coming out of his mouth at the moment, all of his attention focused on the contact between his and Greg's bodies and the heat nearly burning through his abdomen.

\-------------------------

Every single aspect of Mycroft assaulted each of Greg’s senses; the DI felt like he was very nearly drowning in an overload of intoxicating information. The room smelled of sweat, sex, and the sweet undertone of something distinctly unique to the politician himself. God knew the man tasted good enough. Almost like cinnamon. Lestrade could feel the thin, firm line of Mycroft's lips and the textured slide of his tongue though they had long parted from his own mouth; the sensation causing the taste of the slightly younger man to never quite fade away. Accented with the slight briny taste of his own sweat, which covered his torso and face in a thin sheen thanks to his exertion, it created a heady cocktail that had Groaning groaning and thrusting that much harder into the willing warmth of his partner's body.

In addition to that exhilarating input, there was a striking visual component to the overwhelming rush of erotic input Lestrade was receiving from Mycroft. The auburn haired man writhed beautifully beneath him; his spine arching as he braced his bad shoulder against the mattress and  _ pushed _ into Greg's thrust like a man starved for sensation. Momentarily distracted from the hot clench of muscle around him Greg lost himself in the way the muscles in Mycroft's shoulders moved to steady himself every time Greg fully seated himself inside him, the freckled ivory expanse of skin that ran upwards from his hips to the nape of his neck, the way sweat dampened strands of auburn hair started to curl rebelliously against their usual rigid coiffure. God. It was perfection. The DI could very nearly feel the hammering of his heart in his cock; every nerve and vein him focused on the crushingly hot point of contact between his and Mycroft’s bodies. The slide of his partner around him, as well as the feel of their skin crashing damply together every time he pushed all the way forward made Lestrade the slightest bit dizzy, almost as if his brain (or his aging body at the very least) couldn’t fully handle the endless stream of information it was receiving.

The sincere, unrestrained, lushly breathy cries coming from Mycroft’s mouth assaulted his ears, each desperate “oh”, every ragged utterance of his full name, and all the groaned pleas for more took root deep in the DI’s abdomen. The pressure of his cresting orgasm along with what was easily the most exertion he'd put himself to since his stabbing caused causing every muscle Greg's lower body to tremble with tension. With a slight clumsiness born of pleasure numbed digits as much as it was from the effort to steady himself using nothing but his thighs, Lestrade wrapped his broad hand around the politician's enticing length as it bobbed against his abdomen with each thrust. Thick fingers stroked the heated, velvety flesh gently in time with each roll of their hips, Greg attempting to give Mycroft everything the man was asking for and then some.

_ More? God Mycroft, of course I'll give you more. I'll give you anything you want. Anything at all. Anything,  _ _** everything ** _ _ you want of me it's yours... _

Vaguely aware that at least some of the words he'd thought had tumbled out of his lips between gasps and groans, Greg brought his eyes up to meet his partner's lust darkened steely blues. Overwhelmed and pushed past the point of good sense by sensation and insurmountable affection, Greg managed to gasp out the only remaining words filling his mind.

"A-anything you want of me, Mycroft. I'm - ah - y-yours.  ** Yours ** ."

\-------------------------

There was nothing left for Mycroft to do but gasp and moan and writhe underneath Greg, his breath stolen from him with every roll of the DI's hips, every brush against the target that Greg seemed to be hitting on every full thrust into him. Everything felt so hazy aside from the sharp pangs of pleasure whenever Greg seated himself fully in Mycroft, Mycroft's hips more than happy to push back on the DI in an effort for more, more, and more. Finally, though, Greg was giving him the more that he was raggedly asking for, the first touch of Greg's slightly callused palm against his sensitive length causing a full body shudder that had his free hand gripping the sheets, the fabric twisted between his fingers as the burning thread in his abdomen pulled completely taut, the tension of his pleasure nearly at the point of pain.

He realized, distantly, that Greg had started speaking words at some point, different words than just 'god', 'Mycroft', and 'yes'. With a considerable amount of effort on his part, he managed to pull himself back into consciousness, fully aware that this was going to last for less than a minute because that heat was rapidly stretching tighter than he'd thought possible and at some point it was going to have to snap. Greg was...Greg was saying just words at first that didn't seem to make sense, mostly 'god', 'yours', and 'anything', until they connected into a sentence that made a pang shoot through his chest, a painfully strong twinge of affection that only added to the sensations he was experiencing, disconnected as they may have seemed at first.

Summoning whatever dregs of his consciousness he had left, Mycroft managed to actually find words, disjointed and fragmented as they were. "Oh, god, Gregory," he managed to pant out, though it was certainly a challenge on his for once nearly silent, certainly overwhelmed mind. "I was...was always--" a gasp here as Greg's hand moved just so "--yours." And then he was moaning breathlessly as his body climbed the last of the short distance it had to go before tipping over, his climax spilling over his stomach and Greg's hand as his eyes fluttered shut, muscles clenching around Greg throughout.

When he recovered enough to actually react his eyes blinked back open, starved for the eye contact he sought from the DI. It was true, what he'd said. Even when he'd had to cut himself off from Greg, even through his time with Neil, even when he'd tried to shut Greg out completely, Greg had been there. In his thoughts, in his supposedly frozen heart. He had somehow, without meaning to, started thinking of himself as belonging to Greg. With, Greg, he had to remind himself. With Greg he wasn't a possession, it was a reciprocal ownership. Greg was his, and he was certainly Greg’s.

\-------------------------

As Mycroft’s orgasm built, Greg found himself falling deeper and deeper along the spiral of pleasure that twisted towards his own climax, every stroke of skin against skin coiling the already tight sensation in him just a little bit more. Every shock of pleasure that ran wild through Mycroft’s system caused the DI to gasp in response, matching his partner’s breathy tone by accident more than design. Adding to the already intense pleasure was the physical sensation of Mycroft almost desperately arching himself up into Greg’s body, every thrust of the politician’s hips a physical plea for more. Gazing deeply into the Mycroft’s eyes, Lestrade found himself unable to do anything but comply, rutting up against his partner with a fervor that he’d never felt for anyone or anything before. The entire focus of his being shifted, every tattered scrap that remained of Greg’s attention focused on reveling in the sensations swarming between them and pushing Mycroft over into completion. The force of it was searing, consuming, and almost painfully taut; the sensation pooling low in his abdomen as it eroded everything else in his mind until only two things remained… Mycroft and himself.

Greg felt the other man’s mounting orgasm, taking note of the slight tremors in his thighs and the way that his body clenched almost desperately around his length at each inward thrust. The DI noted with no small amount of pleasure the blissed out look on Mycroft’s aristocratic face; his beautiful and somewhat swollen lips open as he gasped and keened out his pleasure in increasing frequency and volume. That beautiful image combined with the feel of every muscle in the other man’s body tightening, the tension in Mycroft’s abdomen causing him to arch artfully up into Greg caused the DI to moan and thrust just a bit harder into the unfathomably beautiful man below him. Without any further warning Mycroft’s orgasm hit him, the politician tossing his head as an exquisite moan tore its way from his throat. The sensation of Mycroft’s completion hit Greg like a bolt of lighting, sending every nerve in his body and circuit in his brain offline, sweeping away thought and sensation in a whitewash of static. For a moment the DI was completely lost in the shared space between them, no truly defined sense of self to hold onto as the sheer enormity of the sensation he was experiencing bombarded every cell of him with a pleasure that reduced him to a shivering, shaking mess.

The feel of Mycroft’s cock jerking against his abdomen pulled Lestrade back towards reality; the familiar feeling of warm fluid spreading across his hand tethering him solidly to the moment he was sharing with Mycroft. Then words, sweet, amazing words breached the remaining aura of hazy static that spiraled around him. Mycroft whispered ‘yours’ in the most delicious, breathy voice that Lestrade had ever heard. That was all it took to bring Greg fully around. The moment reality crashed back into him (or rather, he crashed back into reality) his own body responded in kind. His hips gave a few final, fitful stutters against Mycroft’s before his own orgasm crashed through him. The force of it reduced the silver haired DI to nothing but a gasping bundle of nerves, his vision swimming with a million burning points of light as it crested, and he collapsed somewhat gracelessly atop Mycroft when the tide ebbed. The feel of it seemed to go on forever; the intensity left him utterly, yet contentedly spent in its wake.

Finally coming back to himself yet again, DI threaded his long fingers through Mycroft’s sweat dampened auburn hair, taking care to wipe his hand a bit on the sheets first. Not that it mattered, really. They were both going to need one hell of a shower when they were capable of standing again. Still, it seemed like the normally prim politician would appreciate the gesture. Aside from shower and courtesy thoughts, everything else remained blissfully blank, and even those threads merely floated at the edge of his consciousness. Actual, complete thought processes came back to him a few moments later, and when they did it he craned his neck upwards to gaze at Mycroft’s face. Greg blinked a bit in surprise when he saw those lovely slate grey eyes were open, pupils still blown wide with lust, while sheer affection was written on every line of his aristocratic features.

Greg's heart couldn't help but swell in return and he easily lost himself in Mycroft’s gaze, smiling as he worked his broad fingers gently across the politician’s scalp. Finally, when he couldn’t hold his head up any longer he let it drift lazily to the side of Mycroft’s throat, planting affectionate, lazy kisses up and down the length of pale skin between his jaw and collarbone, stopping only occasionally to rest his ear against the man’s throat, basking in his rapid but slowing pulse.

“Hello gorgeous,” he managed to murmur, voice rough with overuse, words peppered with more kisses, that batch placed against Mycroft’s shoulder.  _ I'm impossibly in love with you. _ The words didn't quite make their way past the caution that had started to creep in around the edges of Greg's consciousness. After all, there was no sense in putting Mycroft in any tight spots; saying anything to him that he felt like he had to reciprocate. Plus, he was still acting just as much of a schoolgirl as he had been the day this all started; falling in love after a heated snog and a quick shag. Well, that wasn't quite true. The love he had for the decorous politician, grizzled and rough as it was, had preceded all their recent troubles. Silently, Greg ran the back of his hand down Mycroft's face, gazing into those stormy grey eyes with unrestrained affection, feeling like every muscle fiber in his heart was going to tear itself apart because it couldn't contain the enormity of what he felt for his disheveled, auburn haired partner.

"I think the world of you." There. Close, but nothing too pressuring or troublesome. And true, so true. For the past two years his life had revolved around Mycroft Holmes. The auburn haired man had served as his axis for so long that it felt right, natural, and so very wonderful to finally have made their connection 'official' in some way. "The whole bloody world, Mycroft." Content in the moment, Greg sealed the words with a gentle, affectionate kiss.

\-------------------------

Mycroft had at least pulled himself together enough to be able to string together thoughts by the time Greg slumped against him, but everything was still awash in that lovely post-coital bliss, the noise in his brain reduced to a quiet buzzing in the background that he could certainly deal with for the time being. The pleasant haze was only added to by the feel of the DI's fingers carding gently through his hair as Greg slowly recovered himself, taking a few minutes to gather himself before finally looking up at Mycroft. Even if Mycroft had possessed the amount of self-control needed to conceal his true emotions, he wouldn't have exercised it. He wanted Greg to see every ounce of affection he felt for him, to see the visible proof that this meant more to Mycroft than the physical connection, though that was certainly more than a bonus.

The soft smile that Greg gave him in return made something flutter in his chest, the feeling increasing as Greg's lips traveled up and down his throat, occasionally replaced by his ear as he listened to Mycroft's pulse, which was slowing down gently, eased on its way by the lovely affection that Greg seemed more than happy to bestow on him. Mycroft was quite content to just lay here and soak it all in, even though the application of 'gorgeous' in regards to himself made him blush slightly, old reactions dying hard, especially when he was far from the state of mind where his reactions were easy to control. Greg, however, seemed to be in the same state of mind, the sheer amount of affection, almost close to adoration, in his gaze washing over Mycroft, the politician soaking up as much of it as he could.

And when Greg spoke, Mycroft knew what he meant. Yes, he did also mean that he thought the world of Mycroft, but that wasn't really what Greg wanted to say. He could hear it in Greg's voice, see it in the DI's eyes, feel it in the soft touch of the back of Greg's hand to his face and the kiss he punctuated his sentence with. Greg was a step, just a step away from saying what he really wanted to, but couldn't quite seem to get the actual word out. Normally Mycroft would have said that he was afraid to say it, but that wasn't Greg. Greg stated things boldly, openly, with no regrets and even if it could lead to potential embarrassment. No, it was Greg's brain, not his heart that was getting in his way. No doubt he didn't want to force Mycroft to say his own true feelings, afraid that the other man was still in a delicate emotional state.

Well, yes and no. It was true that Mycroft was still healing from his relationship with Neil, but that process would never really be entirely over. What was more of an issue was that Mycroft hadn't told anyone since Neil that he loved them. Not a single person, usually because his relationships didn't last long enough for the word to be warranted. And wasn't that funny, that his relationship with Greg had barely even started and the word was on the edge of his lips? But it still refused to spill over, a few small, bitter memories of Neil saying that he always lied when he said it coming back and stoppering his words. So instead he repressed a sigh and smiled with the warmth and affection he truly felt towards Greg, his free hand drawing languid circles on the DI's arm. "I know, Gregory," he said, layering his words with as much double meaning as he could to show the DI that he understood what he couldn't quite say. "And I you."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is an important update for several reasons. First and foremost, you all finally get what you signed up for in the first place, adorable and darling Mystrade smut and a healthy dose of fluff to boot. Chesh and I both hope that this is the beginnings of making a rather painful reading experience much, much better. <3
> 
> Additionally, I realized while posting that this could be seen as an end to the story, but really, there's so much more healing and niceness to be had so stick around, because bi-monthly updates will still be happening for the forseeable future.
> 
> Finally! We wanted to take a moment to thank each and every one of our readers because this chapter brings us to over 300K words, and we just passed 10K in views! That is an awful lot of people reading an awful lot of our words and gosh, we're beyond flattered folks. This has been going on for just about a year now and we're completely gobsmacked at how loyal, wonderful, and all around fantastic you all have been. Seriously, we love each and every one of you and can't say enough nice things about you. If you ever need job references, give us a call. Need help hiding bodies? Give us a call. 300K plus of emotional trauma, it's the least we can do. <3
> 
> No but seriously you guys and gals and nonbinary and nongendered and all iterations of persons are simply the best best best, and yes. ALL THE FOLLOWER APPRECIATION TO YOU. Each and every one of you has made this a positive, wonderful experience for us both and just yes. Thank. Many thank. (Ah, the post chapter notes in which Mazi is too touched to words and runs away now.) WE LOVE YOU ALL.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft and Greg bask in the afterglow of their first time together, and start to take a rather steamy shower.
> 
> Warnings: Fluff!

A quiet moment passed between them after Lestrade's comment, and the pair lay there together in the rather mussed bed, still tangled together and both apparently unwilling to part.  Drifting somewhat aimlessly in a lovely post coital haze, Greg soaked up every single aspect of Mycroft he possibly could.  From the warm feel of the man's body pressed beneath him to the strong beat of his pulse beneath the DI's ear.  The heady smell of sex and sweat, the taste of Mycroft lingering on his lips, the feel of his soft auburn hair beneath his fingertips... Greg basked in each sensation.  

The contented silence, though momentary, saw Greg drift further off into the warm fog that wrapped itself around his brain.  He hung in a hazy, comfortable space between awake and asleep, only snapping out of it when Mycroft unexpectedly spoke, his voice thick with emotion as he returned Greg's words of affection and god... If he hadn't already been completely undone by the man beneath him Greg would have unraveled that very second.  It was almost unbelievable in a way, that someone of Mycroft's caliber could feel that way about him, rough and wrung out as he was, but there was absolutely no trace of deception or placating tone in those reverently spoken words.  It was almost enough to make Lestrade think that -

_No.  I'm not going to overthink this.  I'm just **not**.  I knew immediately when I decided to walk into this that I'd be tripping head over heels for him the minute my feet crossed the threshold, wanted this badly enough that I was willing to take the chance.  _ And Greg had certainly hoped that Mycroft would return the sentiment, if only for a little while.  Well, it appeared that he was a luckier man than he'd ever though, because Mycroft was tracing circles across his arm, responding in kind to Greg's rather blunt confession of lo- _affection_.  The reciprocation was almost enough to make his stomach drop, and not necessarily in an entirely good way.  Having something meant... well... it meant having something to lose.

_Hell.  I told myself I wouldn't stress about how long things would last, and I meant it.  Tonight, the next two weeks, two years or forever.  It doesn't matter.  I'll enjoy every single, solitary, bloody **amazing** second of Mycroft Holmes that I possibly can._

Firmly pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind as he slid off his partner, Greg took a moment to readjust them both into a more comfortable position.  Rolling over, the DI pressed himself up against the warmth of Mycroft's side and rested his head against the man's good shoulder.  Another slight adjustment and Lestrade had comfortably pulled the politician's un-slung arm around him, sighing contentedly as he settled with his own free limb strewn across Mycroft's chest.  A blissful smile crossed his lips as he tipped his head up, gazing with naked affection into Mycroft's stormy blue eyes.  God, this was better, **so much** better than anything he'd ever dared hope for.  With his free hand, Greg stroked his fingers along the pale column of Mycroft's throat, seemingly unable to stop touching the man's skin even for a moment.

"'M sorry," he murmured, tone more satisfied than apologetic.  "Can't seem to keep my hands off of you."

\-------------

The look in Greg's eyes when Mycroft returned his sentiment was absolutely beautiful. Mostly it was sheer affection and some astonishment that Mycroft was reciprocating, but there was almost something heartbreaking in there, a type of insecurity that made it seem like the DI couldn't really believe Mycroft or thought that it was only temporarily returned. God, he wished that he could actually force out the words he really wanted to say, but insecurities and old fears and Neil's voice hissing in the back of his mind stopped him, biting his tongue lightly to hold back things that were trying far too hard to make it out of his mouth.

Luckily Greg gave him something else to focus on as he maneuvered them both, ending up against Mycroft's chest, Mycroft's good arm around him and Greg's strewn across him as the DI put his head on his shoulder. The way that Greg was looking up at him, unrestrained affection in his gaze along with a lovely, beyond content smile on his lips, made Mycroft's heart flutter in his chest, deciding that it could skip a few beats without giving out entirely. Better yet was the almost reverent way Greg stroked his fingers along his throat, voice laden with poorly hidden satisfaction as he made an 'apology' for the way his hands were lingering on Mycroft's skin.

Mycroft chuckled lightly. "My dear, I wouldn't permit you to take them off if you tried," he said, his voice almost teasing, but still coated in the heavy layer of affection that he couldn't seem to shake off and didn't want to. Really, his only regret in this entire situation was that he only had one hand free since his own hands seemed to have a desperate need to stay on Greg's warm, tanned skin. He settled for stroking up and down part of Greg's spine with the back of his fingers, enjoying just having Greg's warm weight pressed against him and the feel of the DI underneath his fingers.

It was funny that Greg felt the need to apologize for his affection, or at least pretend to while settling down in contentment. Of course, he couldn't know that Mycroft was always, always, always starved for affection, constantly deprived because his cold exterior made people assume he didn't enjoy it. And of course, that cold exterior was because Neil had used Mycroft's addiction against him, giving him enough to keep him hooked and then depriving him until he got whatever it was that he wanted from Mycroft at the time. Neil had used it as a weapon, and here Greg was offering it freely. God Greg was wonderful.

He forced himself away from thoughts of the past, hoping his pause hadn't been too long, and smiled back at Greg with all the affection he truly felt. "Besides, I have no intention of leaving this bed and losing contact with you unless I deem it absolutely necessary."

\-----------------------

Lestrade couldn't help but give a soft chuckle at Mycroft's response to his very canned apology; the politician insisting that Greg wasn't going to be allowed to stop touching him without repercussions.  The words were warmly spoken, endearment obvious in Mycroft's tone.  After the initial giddy shock that followed Mycroft's confession of fondness, Greg thought that perhaps his heart would stop thundering in his chest every time the elegant (if momentarily mussed) politician gave him any sort of affection.  That was quite obviously not the case, as Greg's chest practically vibrated with the force of his thumping heart at Mycroft's response that only slowed as they both shifted over to contented silence.

They settled in against one another comfortably.  Greg hummed happily to himself as his hand continued to affectionately wander over the silken, freckled skin of Mycroft's throat and shoulder.  The politician returned the tender gesture by letting the back of his fingers trail along the sensitive skin of the DI's lower back.  A few seconds passed in comfortable silence before something shifted, the mood in the room changing just a bit.  It took Greg a minute to realize what the subtle difference was.  Hell, he wouldn't even have noticed the slight tensing of Mycroft's jaw if he hadn't been stroking the side of his rather lovely neck.  But he was, and so when the tendons in the politician's neck tensed Lestrade immediately felt it and tried to sooth the stiffness with sweeps of his fingertips.  It didn't do much to get the man to release the tension, though.  In fact, he seemed a bit... distracted.

Concerned, Greg tipped his head up slightly to see if he could read some cause for the shift in mood on his partner's face.  Something cold ran through Lestrade's system as he noted the faraway look in Mycroft's slate blue eyes; a look that added to the slight air of distance about him.  It wasn't a bad sign, necessarily... but it was obvious that the man was wrapped up in his own thoughts for the moment.  The DI soothed the sharp chill that had coursed through him by really looking at the other man, taking note of what was going on before he let himself devolve into full blown panic.  After all, just because Mycroft was wrapped up in thinking about something didn't necessarily mean it had anything to do with the two of them, right?

His auburn haired partner hadn't made any move to distance himself from Greg, so that was a good.  In fact, Mycroft's long fingers continued to languidly stroke up and down his spine almost as if on autopilot.  The gesture almost seemed unconscious.  Like touching Greg was second nature, which the DI found very comforting.  In fact, Mycroft's fingers seemed insistent on pulling them even closer together, even though everything else about him just seemed a little... off.  He was probably thinking about the past, then.  That could be a heavy topic, so Greg braced himself to interject something to lighten the mood but couldn't think of the right words.  All the DI really wanted to do was wrap Mycroft tightly in his arms and shower the man with affectionate kisses until there wasn't any room left in that brilliant mind for the hurts of the past.  And well, that brought up another point that Lestrade had been avoiding.  A bubble of panic rose in Greg's chest for a moment, tightening his chest as his brain berated him for jumping too quickly into bed with the man he'd come to provide _emotional_ support for.

Fortunately, Mycroft came back out of it himself and started speaking before Greg could chase that self-deprecating line of thought down and worry it like a starved dog with a bone.  Mycroft's words were a much needed lift from the spiral of doubt that the DI had found himself sucked into.  That, and the dazzling smile that his partner fixed him with.  God, Mycroft was gorgeous all the time but especially so when happy.  And he did look happy.  The rather obvious look of content that lit up Mycroft's aristocratic features chased away the last vestiges of panic that had been welling in Greg's chest.  Grateful for more reasons than he could describe, the DI pressed a line of kisses along the pale curve of Mycroft's collarbone.

_God I'm jumpy.  Half crazy about doing the right thing, or not doing the wrong thing.  Bloody hell.  I know he's not made of porcelain, and I shouldn't be so worried.  But still...  No.  I said I wasn't going to do this, and I'm fucking well not._  Another firm mental shove pushed the remainder of the melancholy thoughts to the far back of Lestrade's mind.  Melancholy shaken, Greg raised his brown eyes to return his partner's gaze with every ounce of tenderness, joy, and unadorned appreciation that he felt.

"Honestly, that sounds wonderful.  I could easily spend the rest of our vacation here in bed with you.  Though we will need to eat and shower at some point.  Though I'm in no rush at all.  This is... well... being with you is the nicest thing that's happened to me in quite some time."

\--------------

Much to Mycroft's concern, Greg's eyes held something between panic and worry when he turned back to speak to the DI. Oh, Greg must have noticed his somewhat distant state and no doubt deduced what the cause of his dysphoria was. Luckily, though, Greg's face melted into relief after Mycroft spoke, the other man even pressing a line of gentle kisses along Mycroft's collarbone, and Mycroft found it once again impossible to keep the affectionate smile off of his lips, his hand continuing its easy, almost unconscious motions on Greg's back. He felt even better about the situation as Greg turned his eyes on him in a gaze that was so full of emotion that something almost painful swelled in Mycroft's chest as Greg spoke. Good god was Greg too good for him.

He chuckled softly at the DI's correct assertion that at some point they would actually have to move, both for a very necessary shower and because they needed to eat. Well, Greg was really the one that needed to eat, but at the moment Mycroft was feeling wonderful and eating actually sounded like a pleasant activity to him at the moment, a rare occurrence, though he'd been getting better about it since he came here. The rest of the DI's words struck him, and he leaned forward to press a kiss to Greg's forehead, finding the easy air of contentment and mutual appreciation for each other made him slip into almost unconscious affection. That was just the way it was, though. When his brain was still mostly quiet like this, it was replaced by the emotions he so carefully hid, and besides, those same emotions had a tendency to slip out of their own accord around Greg. And then he got to see Greg's reactions to an affection he was clearly unused to, each one more wonderful than the next. Perhaps, somehow, he would be able to accustom the DI to these things. With time.

"Shower first, I believe," he said, hand dipping down to brush his fingertips up Greg's side. "Then we'll have to find something to eat, though I think some local food would be best at this point. You can cook for me another time, that is an absolute must at some point. At least, if you're amenable." God, this was all so domestic and it was so very lovely. He wanted to sleep and eat and kiss Greg silly and stay curled up with him all at the same time. Ah, but he had something more important to attend to first.

"And this is the most pleasant thing that has happened to me in a long time as well, Gregory. I...I sincerely appreciate everything you've done for me. And for Sherlock as well," he added almost as an afterthought. He turned another smile on Greg, this one appreciative, sincere. "You really are quite the man, Gregory Lestrade."

\-------------

Mycroft's long fingers sweeping their way up his side caused Greg to fold up into himself a bit, responding to the gesture with a desperate-sounding chortle.  By the time the politician's hand reached Greg's upper ribs he was laughing outright.  Nose scrunched and face buried in the crook of Mycroft's neck, Lestrade managed to gasp out a single sentence.

"Ah! 'M ticklish!"  It was hardly a complaint, though his abdomen wasn't particularly fond of the way that he was curled in on himself.  Being pressed against the side of Mycroft's throat was quite nice.  Worth the trade off.  Plus, after that too kind smile and the very sincere thanks, Greg wasn't sure that he could make eye contact without turning full-on scarlet from the praise.  It was... unusual.  Normally he handled feedback, both positive and negative, rather well.  Something about the candor in Mycroft's gaze made Lestrade a bit self-conscious.  Fortunately, the silver tongued politician had set himself up for a return round of compliments, and Greg was more than happy to turn the focus of the conversation back to his amazing partner.

"It takes one to know one," The DI murmured, happy that his face being against Mycroft's neck hid the blush that he knew his face was sporting.  How was it possible for Mycroft to look so charming when his cheeks colored, but for Greg to look so goofy?  Shaking his head slightly, Lestrade gave an internal shrug.  Just one of life's great mysteries, another amazing thing about Mycroft to put on the ever expanding list.

"You're one to talk about being an exceptional man, Mycroft Holmes."  The words were punctuated with three short, sweet kisses to the line of Mycroft's jaw.  "As for the rest of it.... well.  You know, I didn't do all that much to begin with."  Greg coupled the words with a grin; no self depreciation there.  He was simply aware that Sherlock and Anthea had done the majority of the important legwork work when it came to finding Mycroft.  Not that he blamed himself for not doing more, what with being stabbed and then poisoned and all.  "But what I **did** do, I'd do again in a heartbeat.  Not just because Sherlock is my friend, or because it's my job.  Because, well.  I - You're worth it."  Mycroft appeared to be rather uncomfortable with praise as well, and the last thing that the DI wanted to make things awkward.  Fortunately Greg Lestrade was an expert at changing the subject.

"Now," he said, pulling himself out of his hiding place against the smooth skin of the politician's throat.  "I think a shower and some takeaway sounds wonderful.  But if you think I'm leaving this house again tonight, Mycroft, you're sorely mistaken.  I don't fancy the idea of either one of us having to put much clothes back on."  Looking up at his partner with a mischievous gleam in his brown eyes, Greg gave a radiant, genuine smile.  "Especially not when I'm going to have you right back out of them again as soon as possible."

\-------------------------------------

It was completely startling when Greg started laughing, curling in on himself and burying his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck. His explanation followed just a second after, and Mycroft couldn't help chuckling at the newfound knowledge that the grizzled DI was ticklish and could be reduced to less than manly chuckles within seconds. That was valuable information that Mycroft filed away for later, to use when Greg wasn't still recovering from a stab wound and in danger of re-injuring himself somehow. Which reminded him that later, when they weren't so rushed about things, he could kiss his way along the wound, a mark of a hurt that Mycroft had indirectly caused.

The DI's new position allowed Mycroft to feel the warmth of the blush gracing Greg's cheeks, caused no doubt by the compliments that Mycroft was more than happy to keep bestowing upon the other man. He wished that he could actually see Greg at the moment, because the DI was absolutely endearing when he blushed, but he supposed Greg was preserving his dignity and besides, he was enjoying having him pressed into the curve of his neck and shoulder. Well, that and the three short kisses Greg pressed to his jaw, sweet words coming from his lips just as easily as the kisses, and when he said Mycroft was worth it Mycroft found a light blush gracing his own cheeks, which unfortunately he couldn't hide before Greg pulled his head back with a brilliant smile.

Mycroft couldn't help but chuckle at the DI's words, his fingers splayed across Greg's back again so he wasn't in danger of triggering another fit of giggles. "My apologies, I didn't realize you were ticklish. There are plenty of other places that my hands can stay, and I'm sure I'll enjoy many of them much more," he said, barely even needing the hint of suggestion layered in his voice.

"And if that's how you feel about it, Gregory, then perhaps you shouldn't put on any at all. After all," he murmured, drawing his fingertips up the length of Greg's spine, "It'd be a shame to cover something so gorgeous up." He swooped in to kiss Greg before the DI could deny it or react at all, teasing him with his tongue for a few minutes before pulling away again with a satisfied smile. "No, neither of us will have to put on any clothing if we wish, aside from when we answer the door. I did say you'd be completely taken care of while here, did I not?"

\-----------

Something about the way Mycroft chuckled in response to Greg's ticklishness made the DI a bit wary.  Oh, that weakness was going to be exploited at a later date.  He was sure of it.  But thinking on the lovely way that Mycroft's long fingers felt while pressed against his lower back, Greg had to admit that he didn't mind the thought at all.  And then there was the rather suggestive offer to keep his hands elsewhere.  As wonderful as that sounded, Lestrade knew that if his cheeks hadn't already been colored by the ticklishness and the compliments that they surely would have gone pink at that remark.

"You have my express permission to put those wonderful hands of yours wherever you like."  The words came out as more of a purr than he mean them to, but it was becoming exceedingly difficult for Greg to not feel like an indolent house cat.  It was hard not to, what with all the laying abed in the middle of the day, and his partner's fingers stroking affectionately along the length of his spine.  And, well, Lestrade most certainly knew that he was smiling like a cat who'd gotten into the cream.  He felt completely and utterly pampered by the free flowing affection.  Hell, it wouldn't even have mattered if they were in a shack instead of some villa that likely cost more than Greg would make in his lifetime.  It was Mycroft that was the sinfully enjoyable part of their time away together, not the fancy wrapping that came along with him.  

Though speaking of pretty packaging; that offer the politician had just made caused a warm, almost teenage-strength thrill to run through his chest and coil up in his abdomen.  Oh yes.  Having a clothes-free portion of their holiday together sounded **lovely**.  Before Greg could respond Mycroft's clever mouth was pressed against his, causing Lestrade to give an appreciative little groan in the back of his throat.  The kiss went on for minutes, languid and warm and oh-so wonderful.  Fucking hell, he could snog Mycroft Holmes for years.  Reaching up he cupped the side of Mycroft's face, pulling him a bit closer together as he deepened the kiss.  The DI pressed against the politician next to him with both his tongue and the rest of his body, not letting up until they were both slightly desperate for air.

"As for a no-clothes holiday; I rather like the idea."  Even his mild panting didn't diminish the excited quality to Lestrade's voice.  Greg's agreement was complemented by a rather wolfish grin.  "I don't think I'll ever get enough of looking at you.  In fact, let's have a 'robes only' policy for the rest of the weekend.  And even then, only when absolutely necessary.  Like putting them on so we don't get blacklisted by every delivery place in the area."

"I fully intend to memorize every inch of you, Mycroft Holmes.  And sadly, I'm not a quick study," he murmured, placing another row of kisses along the pale column of Mycroft's throat.  "So I may have to make several attempts before it all sticks."  Greg placed another set of light kisses, this time across the collarbone, ending with an open-mouthed kiss to the slight hollow at the base of his throat.  "Hope you don't mind."

\-------------

Mycroft's first answer to Greg was just a contented hum as the DI's lips traveled along his neck and collarbone. The noise in his head was slowly getting louder and louder in volume and he wanted to make this last as long as possible, this nice little slightly hazy peace with Greg. Well, even when his mind fully rebooted the affection wouldn't disappear, it would just be more likely to be blocked by his constantly overanalyzing, overthinking brain. But, right now, that wasn't important.

What was more important was the lovely promise held in Greg's voice, the intention in every word. After a moment of just enjoying the contact between his skin and Greg's lips he managed to find words again. "As long as you don't mind me doing the same with you, Gregory," he said, fingertips playing with the dip in the DI's spine. "Though I suspect that we'll have plenty of time memorize each other." He couldn't say that his voice was salacious, exactly, just more covered in a slight layer of appealing honey as he drew his index finger up the straight line of the center of Greg's back.

Because, god, he wanted to christen every inch of this flat. Which sounded more than a little shallow and like he was preoccupied with a physical relationship with Greg, but that wasn't the case. In fact, it was really the opposite. He deeply cared for Greg, though he wasn't ready to classify it as love, but affection could only go so far to show that. It was easier for him to express his feelings in a physical, tangible way, offer himself over and express caring through the means of desire. It seemed a little backwards in a way, but that was just how he was. Stuck in the same behavior that Neil had instilled in him, associating strong emotions with physicality until he was almost desperate to show how he felt with his body.

But that was the past and this was now, and he shook off the ghosts to smile at Greg, his hand stopping its motions as he gently nudged Greg to get him to move, sitting up as well after a moment as he said, "But I do believe that a shower is in order first, and then some much needed dinner. You'll have to help me with my sling I'm afraid, but that's a small price to pay, I believe." He tilted his head towards the master bathroom. "Shall we?"

\--------

"Even if having you reciprocate _didn't_ sound like the most wonderful thing in the world," Greg said, pulling himself into a sitting position at Mycroft's gentle urging.  "I don't think I could ever deny you something you wanted."   _Even if it seems like the most illogical thing in the world._  Not that Greg was down on his appearance.  Far from it.  Lestrade knew he'd aged well given the circumstances of his life, and while his body wasn't exactly fit anymore he certainly wasn't wildly out of shape either.  Greg simply knew his charms to be a bit... well... careworn.  Not exactly threadbare, but fraying around the edges a bit.  The idea that someone as posh, as well-put-together as Mycroft found him attractive?  It was wonderful, but it'd also take some getting used to.

_Not that 'immersion therapy' or whatever they call it sounds so bad.  In fact, this is something I could really get used to..._ The thought made Greg's heart temporarily seize; a sensation that he immediately recognized and pushed aside.   _No.  No planning for the long term or mourning a future I don't even know exists.  Fuck!  Focus, Lestrade.  You're laying up against the most bloody gorgeous bloke you've ever seen.  That's worth a lot more attention that your usual malaise._

The slow stroke of Mycroft's fingertips made it easier than usual for the DI to direct his thoughts back to the present.  And as dulcet as his bedmate's voice was when suggesting that they make a mutual (and Greg assumed quite thorough) exploration of each other, the thing that made Lestrade shudder slightly with anticipation was the single finger that trailed its way up his spine.  God.  The things that Mycroft could do to him with a single touch.  It shouldn't be legal.  Then again, Lestrade suspected that anything the British Government wanted to be legal probably was.  Not that Greg minded one single bit.  In fact, the only thing he minded was that Mycroft seemed to think it was perfectly acceptable to stop running those perfect fingers along his back.  Worse, he actually tried to encourage Greg to sit up.  The _horror_.  Grumbling, the DI managed to gracelessly haul himself upright.  Mycroft soon followed, much more refined in his ascent, saying lovely things about showers and dinner and, oh... it was impossible to stay even the slightest bit grumpy when those grey blue eyes fixed on him.  Moreso when combined with that smile.

"Fine, fine.  We shall."  Greg grumbled, faux resignation in his voice.  "Grumpy about the getting up, not about the sling.  That'd be my pleasure."  Without thinking, he moved his hand to rest at the back of Mycroft's neck, thumb idly stroking the soft skin along the juncture of the politician's ear and throat.  When he realized what he'd done, he gave a small but genuine smile.  God, they already acted like they'd been together for years.  There was an easy familiarity to their interactions that Lestrade, if being completely honest with himself, found both endearing and intoxicating.  The sheer ease of intimacy was enough to make his head spin and his heart swell with an overload of sentiment.

"Lead the way, handsome.  I'm right behind you.  Enjoying the view."

\--------

Mycroft chuckled softly at Greg's grumbling at having to get up, the DI perfectly expressing the sentiment  that he himself was too polite to put forward. If he had his choice they would stay like that all day, just curled up with each other and blocking out the rest of the world as they shared unrestrained affection and swapped compliments. But, as always, practicality intruded, and the DI seemed too content to be the practical one at the moment. Besides, Mycroft's brain was back up to full speed now and was already thinking about ten steps ahead, impatiently waiting for his body to catch up as well.

His body, however, was temporarily distracted by Greg's hand on the back of his neck, his thumb stroking the space between his ear and throat in a soft touch that nearly made him melt on the spot and pull them both back down to the bed. It was nearly astounding, the way they so easily slipped into affection and light contact, all of it as natural as breathing, though the opposite was often true of new couples. Or whatever they were. There really wasn't a label at the moment, nor did Mycroft feel any particular pressure to pick one, because he was still picking up pieces of himself and Greg was still healing and they were both a little shaky on the inside. But despite all that, they could just so easily share things like this, soft, unconscious touches and sweet words that had him resisting the urge to tackle Greg onto the bed again.

Instead he leaned forward to lay a soft kiss on Greg's cheek, returning his smile before finally moving to stand, stretching lightly to prevent some of the soreness that was already trying to settle in. God it'd really been too long. And he was getting old. He waited for Greg to get up before leading the way into the master bath, flipping on lights as he went and saying, "You were enjoying much more than the view not very long ago." The smile that he cast over his shoulder at Greg wasn't quite suggestive, more lightly teasing as he made his way over cold tile floors. He took the time to start up the shower--which was the size of at least a walk in closet--and set the dial to an acceptable temperature before moving back to Greg as he pulled the Velcro tab apart on his sling.

"I'm afraid you may have come at the wrong time," he said apologetically as the other man helped him pull off the sling, revealing a much paler arm with a bandage wrapped around a large part of his upper arm. "Though I won't be out of this for a few months yet, and I certainly wouldn't  have been able to stay away from you for that long."

\----------

As they sat next to each other on the edge of the bed, Mycroft tensed momentarily as if he were preparing to move.  That sentiment was apparently short lived, as the politician all but melted into the hand Greg had placed on the back of his neck.  The idea that he, Greg Lestrade, of all people could still someone as driven as Mycroft sent an odd sort of thrill through him.  Not the rush of power that some other partners may have felt, but an immense sense of wonder.  Gratitude.  Fascination.  Affection.  Greg was still too sex-addled to put together a fully coherent thought, but even in its reduced capacity his brain and heart both recognized that he'd receive no greater gift in life than Mycroft's trust and affection.  The easy way that the man leaned into his touch was beyond description.  With that feeling singing through his chest it was all Greg could do to stop himself from dragging his partner back down onto the bed with him.  Lestrade's heart ached to shower Mycroft with kisses and honest compliments, to wrap Mycroft up in his arms and just hold him, to do everything in his power to convince the amazing man beside him that he was worth every ounce of attention that Greg could muster and more besides.

When Mycroft leaned in and placed a delicate kiss to his cheek, Greg managed not to tangle his hands in that fine auburn hair and simply pull the politician back into him.  God.  He deserved a medal.  A whole slew of medals.  A medal factory, even, for restraining himself.  It certainly took a herculean effort not to drag Mycroft back down beside him again.  The man did have a point, though.  They needed to eat, and a shower definitely felt in order.  Lestrade's shoulders ached a bit with fatigue; while he wasn't in bad shape by any stretch of the imagination he wasn't exactly a teenager either, and he was rather tacky with the aftereffects of their gloriously intense shag.  Fuck all if it hadn't been worth it though.  Still, a few more minutes tangled together in the mess they'd made of the expensive sheets couldn't hurt.  Before the DI could think of any clever ways to convince Mycroft to come back to bed, meal and shower plans be damned, the slightly taller man rose from their shared seat on the bed.  Lestrade bit back a sigh, but he didn't have to hold it for long.  An appreciative hum took its place as the bloody gorgeous man beside him stood up and began to move.

Long limbs arched artfully as Mycroft stretched, and a slight shudder ran down Greg's spine in response.  How the fuck did anyone get off having the right to be so bloody elegant and enticing?  It was goddamn well unfair, is what it was.  And Mycroft's charms more than guaranteed that Greg rose and followed him as the elegant politician strode down the hall.  The bathroom itself turned out to be just as impressive as the rest of the villa; they crossed what felt like meters of cold tile before they finally reached the more than generously sized shower.  Not that Greg was complaining.  Oh no.  After having shared enough smaller showers with various partners in his younger years, he'd learned the value of a generously sized hotel shower.  The unit Mycroft led him towards with a playfully smoldering over-the-shoulder gaze looked like it dwarfed the largest two showers Greg had ever seen combined.  

Hell, as Mycroft adjusted the water temperature it revealed itself to have three of those fancy oversized 'natural rain' shower-heads.  The silver haired DI gave a delighted chuckle at the sight of water cascading down a large portion of the shower's spacious interior.  There'd be no compromise as to who got to stand under the warm spray here.  The set up could more than easily accommodate them both without either party having to get the literal cold shoulder.  Greg was so temporarily enthralled by the bathroom set up that he almost missed the cheeky words that accompanied Mycroft's flirtatious smile.  Grinning back, the DI happily took up the bait.

"I plan on enjoying a whole hell of a lot more than the view not too long far from now," the Lestrade replied, an edge of mischief in his smile.  Reaching out, he let his roughened fingertips trail over the smooth skin of Mycroft's back.  His hand dipped lower and lower until he reached the curve where the long line of the politician's back met the curve of his arse.  With a playful grin Greg let his fingers slide across the pale skin and lush flesh, giving the firmness of the politician's backside a firm squeeze before withdrawing.

"Can't help it.  You make me a right lecher, Mycroft Holmes.  I came at exactly the right time, if you ask me."  The words were light but a flash of concerned darkened Lestrade's eyes when he saw the pale flesh and even paler bandage that restarting to remove the sling revealed.  A hollow feeling twisted through his abdomen, the realization that he'd failed to protect Mycroft during the shoot out creeping up to sap away a bit of Greg's post-coital bliss.  With gentle hands, Lestrade assisted Mycroft in stripping himself of the sling, stopping only occasionally to run his fingers reverently over the man's newly exposed arm.

"And I agree wholeheartedly on the issue of self control.  I think I might have gone mad with frustration after the first forty eight hours of being with you here.  This place is amazing, but it doesn't hold a candle to you."  Thinking back on the blush that covered those aristocratic cheekbones the last time he gave the politician a compliment, Greg decided to strike first.  Before Mycroft could deny him or write him off because the man was exceptional, even if he didn't seem to see himself that way.  Instead, Lestrade busied that brilliant if too-busy mind; distracting the man by grasping Mycroft's wrist.  Smiling, Lestrade placed a series of warm kisses along the graceful lines of blue veins that ran underneath the delicate ivory skin.  Once finished kissing all the way up to the elbow Greg fitted himself behind Mycroft; letting his chin rest in the crook of the politician's neck and shoulder, pressing their cheeks together.  

"You really have no idea how gorgeous you are, do you."  His words were a warm whisper that Lestrade let ghost over the shell of Mycroft's ear as he wrapped his arms around the other man's waist, settling his chin on the politician's good shoulder.  "Now stop being so distractingly pretty and tell me what it is I need to do.  I've got strict instructions not to get mine wet...  In fact I've been ordered to wrap cling film and tape around the wound site to keep it dry.  I assume we're doing something similar for your arm?"

\------------

Good God did he hope Greg made good on the promise held in those fingers trailing down Mycroft's back before cheekily grabbing his arse, every bit of the DI's expression speaking of a playful mischievousness that had Mycroft smiling back at him, all too glad to help Greg enjoy  himself to the fullest. Then, however, there was a flash of something between concern and regret in the DI's eyes as he fully saw Mycroft's arm, and the way that his fingers gently, almost reverently stroked along it as he helped the other man take it off told Mycroft everything he needed to know. Ah. Greg felt guilty. No doubt his mind had turned back to that fateful night out at the pub, remembering the shootout that had resulted in his stab wound and Mycroft's injured arm. Ah, poor, sweet Greg, always blaming himself for things that couldn't be farther from the truth. It certainly wasn't his fault that Mycroft had gotten shot that night; in fact, he had probably been the only thing preventing him from getting a much more serious injury.

But before he could correct the DI on any of his assumptions, Greg had already moved on to a compliment and--oh. A line of sweet kisses from Mycroft's wrist to his elbow that temporarily distracted him, allowing Greg to press in close behind him, fitting his body against Mycroft's in a way that had the politician leaning back against him, more than content to let Greg pull him close by his waist and rest his chin against his shoulder. The things the DI then chose to whisper, breath hot against his ear, however, had a slight shiver running up his spine as his ears turned red, no doubt feeling hot against Greg's cheek. Right, there was a point here, Greg was asking him what he was supposed to be doing-- _"Now stop being so distractingly pretty and tell me what it is I need to do"_ \--and this was when he answered. Instead of standing about blushing like a schoolboy just because he was being fed the affection he so desperately craved.

Greg really didn't realize what he was doing, though, did he? The more he fed Mycroft affection the more attached and addicted Mycroft would get and the harder it would be for Greg to get rid of him, if he so chose. It'd be all too easy for Mycroft to slowly cede all of his control to Greg in return for that addictive affection, a variation of what had happened with Neil. Because Greg wouldn't consciously do it to gain control, but he would all the same. Mycroft had a weakness for affection and a tendency to become too attached to the people who gave it to him, whether it was someone abusive, like Neil, or someone wonderful, like Greg. But as wonderful as Greg was, Mycroft didn't want to lose his control again. He couldn't.

But it felt so nice to just melt back against Greg, their bodies fitting together in a warm and comfortable way. Caught somewhere between wanting to pull away for the sake of his own control and never wanting to move again, it took him a moment to actually form words to answer Greg's question, his voice a little less smooth than usual when he did speak. "Of course. Usually I wrap and tape it myself, but with your help it should be a much easier process." He pulled away from Greg--though he missed the contact as soon as it was gone, and went to one of the drawers at the double sink to pull out the film and tape. He turned to smile at Greg again, a little bit of inner peace returned with a bit of space between them. It wasn't that he didn't want to be close to Greg--because god was that the one thing he wanted the most--it was just all too much, too soon at the moment. It'd be too easy to become dependent on Greg and addicted to his affection with the delicately balanced state Mycroft was currently in. "If you wouldn't mind, Gregory."

\--------------

Greg could feel the rush of blood to Mycroft's cheek; the skin pressed against his own heating slightly as handsome politician gave a blush and an almost imperceptible, vaguely shy tilt of his head at the compliments the DI had just bestowed on him.  That usually sonorous voice was just a bit rougher than normal when Mycroft pulled away and answered Greg's questions about caring for his wound, shifting so he could go retrieve a few cosmetic basics.  Lestrade allowed himself a contented grin when his partner turned to retrieve the items needed to water-proof his shoulder.  Greg was quite aware that he may not have the stamina or looks that he'd had in Uni, but it was at least it was good to know that the 'charm' part of his his arsenal hadn't dulled with either time or disuse, or both.

Then again, over the last few weeks it had ceased surprising Lestrade that Mycroft brought out the very best in him.  But damn if Mycroft still didn't make Greg want to be a better man.  The DI knew he'd have to be better than he ever had been, try harder than he'd ever tried before, to be everything that the elegant politician deserved.  Fuck if Mycroft wasn't worth it though.  He merited so much better care than he'd received from the people in his life.  And while Greg had no romantic illusions that he'd be able to restore _all_ the hurts of Mycroft's past it certainly didn't stop him from wanting to try.

Before he could skirt any further down that tangent line of thought, Mycroft had turned around.  Greg schooled his face back into something a bit more appropriate than the previous self satisfied and somewhat lecherous grin he was sure to have on his face.  Though even the innocent smile he'd conjured to replace it fell some when his eyes locked with Mycroft's as the man stood and turned around.  Something melancholy lingered in those tumultuous stormy blue eyes as they met Greg's warm brown gaze.  All Lestrade could find himself wanting to do was to surge forward and kiss the man until the last of his worries drained away, to run his fingers through that fine auburn hair again and again until he'd chased away whatever dark thoughts loomed in that brilliant mind.  

Mycroft had cooled just slightly in response to wherever his mind had taken him, Greg noticed.  The melancholy had faded but there was a smoothness to his voice that the DI recognized was more 'Government' Mycroft and less with the actual man himself.  Like the sun after a mild storm, though, a smile broke out on the politician's face before Greg could ask him what was wrong.  It was no surprise to Greg when he found himself unable to resist returning the gesture.  It was hard for Greg not to smile when he realized that no matter what dark pathways Mycroft would occasionally walk through in his mind, it seemed the man always managed to find his way back.  Beaming, he stepped forward to take the items from Mycroft's hands so he could bandage his wound and they could get in that rather lush looking shower.  The tile floors weren't doing the temperature in the room any favors, and besides.  Wet, naked Mycroft was something that Greg needed to see sooner rather than later.

"Not one bit," the DI answered in response to Mycroft's request for help.  "In fact, I'm happy to help."  Hands outstretched, Lestrade took the items Mycroft was offering.  They were simple things, really, but high quality.  Water resistant medical tape.  A box of what looked to be medical grade cling film.  Huh.   _That_ was something Greg hadn't seen before.  Then again, he'd never been shot in the shoulder before either.  The gunshot wound the DI received during his years as a Sergeant was right along his calf; a graze more than anything else.  It was easy enough pull a bin liner over his foot and make a sort of 'boot' for himself by taping it in place along his thigh..  This wound location seemed bit trickier.  And well, the idea of Mycroft putting a bin liner on, let alone allowing it to be taped to him was nearly enough to make Greg burst out laughing.  Instead he turned his smile back on Mycroft, gesturing for the man to come closer.

"Now be a good patient and give your shoulder over," he teased, stretching and tearing a piece of the plastic film from its container and advancing on his companion.  "I'll try not to make a complete disaster of wrapping you up.  Though if I do a rather good job of it I might ask for another kiss as a reward, should you feel willing to indulge me."

\-----------

"We'll have to see how you fare, first," Mycroft said with a slight smile as he proffered his arm to Greg, letting the DI's roughened but certainly careful hands have access to the affected area. It was nice, this. This flirtatious little banter they had going while doing what mostly amounted to domestic things. It was funny; Mycroft, in general, had a tendency to wear at least some of his professional persona at all times, even around his partners, as an armor of sorts. But even if he'd wanted to, he wouldn't have been able to wear it with Greg, at least not for extended periods of time or unless it was in extenuating circumstances. Greg didn't try to attack his walls headfirst. He just kind of slipped under them, in a way that was slightly startling, but probably good. Hopefully good.

"Do try not to rush, however, Gregory," Mycroft said, his voice taking on a slightly teasing tone. "As eager as you seem to be at the prospect of seeing me dripping wet on top of being naked, I'd prefer not to have to call a doctor because my bandage gets wet. Though trust me, the sentiment is very much returned," he finished with a smile. Because yes, yes, seeing Greg naked and soaking wet sounded like a wonderful idea. Perfect, in fact. The man was slightly grizzled, true, a little rough around the edges, but that was precisely why he was so attractive to Mycroft. Because Mycroft lived in the world of posh and put-together, had dated numerous people with impeccable taste and impeccable mannerisms and impeccable sticks up their arses. Greg was the antithesis of that, and it was lovely.

Besides, Greg was too good of a man for him. His eyes flicked about Greg as he watched the DI work, not deducing, just observing. The DI was sweet, and lovely, and good to his very core, and he didn't deserve one bit of him. But that was okay. Greg seemed to believe the same was true of himself, and Mycroft was most assuredly going to convince him otherwise however he could. Enough repetition of the same idea should be enough to cement it, but Mycroft had limited data to draw from and further observations needed to be made. Wasn't this fun, using deductions to emotionally build up his partner? At least it wasn't to tear him down.

Mycroft caught Greg's hand as it pulled away, finished with the wrapping, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. "You are simply extraordinary," he said with a soft smile, and then leaned forward to kiss Greg's forehead before pulling him towards the shower. He only released his hand--albeit reluctantly--to close the door behind them, ensuring that the absolutely delightful heat from the water and steam stayed trapped in with them. Also ensuring that Mycroft never wanted to leave, as he stepped under one of the shower heads and nearly melted at the warmth. After a second of just enjoying it he found Greg's hand again, tugging him closer once more. "I hope this passes for an acceptable shower."

\------------

"I promise, when it comes to taking care of you, you won't get anything but my best."  The words were out before Greg could stop them.  Fortunately those stormy blue eyes weren't raised up to Greg's face, so the blush that had bloomed there almost immediately after the 'extraordinary' comment remained unnoticed.  No, those lovely eyes were turned downwards; Mycroft's lips had traveled to the back of the DI's hand, having captured it a bare second after he was done wrapping the politician's wounded shoulder.  Lestrade found himself ready to stammer out some sort of thanks when Mycroft collected and then pressed a kiss to the back of his hand.  The warmth of those satin lips left a tingling trail in their wake, the sensation shaken only when Mycroft leaned forward to plant another sweet kiss along the ridge of his brow.  Greg closed his eyes and stood in appreciative silence for a second, content to simply soak in Mycroft's affections.  A gentle tug on his wrist caused his brown eyes to flash open; and Lestrade caught a rather attractive image of a completely nude Mycroft Holmes leading him towards a shower the size of the walk-in closet in his old house.

Extraordinary wasn't nearly a good enough word to describe the man.  The line of his broad shoulders, the smooth curve of his back, the way it melded perfectly into what Greg thought was a very attractive arse... Mycroft was a picture of elegance even when stripped bare with what amounted to cling film wrapped around one shoulder.  Hapless in the man's wake, Greg trailed along after him, taking in another eyeful when Mycroft stopped to open the shower door.  The way those long fingers looked against the cool metal handle, the perfect efficiency of motion as he swung the door open and ushered them both inside... Greg had never been turned on by someone's posture before but the way that Mycroft held himself was captivating.  Every line of his body melded seamlessly into the others; no slouch or shrug to throw off the aesthetics of his frame.  Greg's appreciation for Mycroft's form held him tongue-tied, unable to protest when the politician's hand released his own, though shutting the door did seem to be a good idea.  Another flash of pale, freckled shoulder and steam-dampened auburn hair was enough to keep the DI stunned and speechless.  His brain refused to form an answer to the man's comment about the quality of the amenities until the view between them was obscured somewhat by the gloriously hot spray of the shower.

"Passes?  Acceptable?"  The words came out as a chuckle, the DI a hairsbreadth from breaking out into disbelieving laughter.  "Mycroft, I'd be happy in any shower that also had you in it.  That aside, this is bloody fantastic."  Strong fingers gave the lithe digits intertwined with his a reassuring squeeze, a brief burst of pressure that complimented the sensation of ferocious affection swelling in his chest.  Unable to resist, driven forward by the ache forming in the pit of his stomach to simply hold the man in front of him, Greg stepped forward.  Though Mycroft was a hair taller, the DI found he fitted perfectly against the man's back.  In fact, their height disparity put Lestrade's mouth at just the right height to nuzzle into the juncture of shoulder and throat.  He complemented the action by wrapping his arms around Mycroft's waist, pulling the politician back into him so that nothing but heat and a thin layer of water separated the two of them.

"And you're one to talk about extraordinary, Mr. Holmes."  Greg breathed the words in a warm whisper against the lobe of Mycroft's ear.  "You're gorgeous, brilliant, kind, fiercely loyal, and hey," he murmured in between pressing kisses along the length of Mycroft's shoulder.  "Did I mention gorgeous?"

\-----------------

Good god did Greg radiate affection. It seemed that he was both unable to keep his hands off of Mycroft and unable to stop complimenting him. The good thing was that the heat of the shower was enough to explain the rose petal blush on Mycroft's cheeks at his words. Usually he was good at this. Usually he could accept compliments graciously and move on. Something about Greg, though, just turned him back into that blushing, shy Uni student. Maybe it was just because Greg slipped past his defenses anyway, making him more relaxed and at ease than he'd felt in--well, maybe in years. It was astounding really, and he found himself leaning back into Greg almost unconsciously.

"You already have me alone in a villa in Greece on vacation, Gregory, there's no need to continue flattering me," he said with a smile. "Though I won't try to dissuade you." No, no, he wouldn't try to do that in even the slightest way unless it all became too much for him, too much addictive affection and close contact and Greg getting too deep into his psyche too fast. Which was a constant danger, the one thing that Mycroft was remaining vigilant about even as he relaxed against the other man. Control, as always, was necessary to maintain, and it reminded him not to show too much of his emotions too quickly for fear of giving away exactly how much he was invested already. Not that he thought Greg would use that knowledge against him--because god was he a good man and Mycroft was on his way to trusting him with his fragile heart--but one could never be too careful.

"And gorgeous? No, I believe that title belongs to you, dear detective." To emphasize this point he turned around in Greg's arms, placing his good hand on his cheek and leaning forward to kiss him. It was wet, and hot, and more than a little filthy, and he licked his lips when he pulled back, smiling at Greg. "I believe you underestimate your force of attraction, my dear," he said, carding his fingers through some of the wet hair at Greg's temple, silver turned dark gray under the spray of water. Well, it seemed that Mycroft had just as much trouble keeping his hands off Greg as Greg did with him. Oh well. There was no harm in that. Quite the opposite, in fact.

**Author's Note:**

> And to give credit where credit is due; the title for this fic was taken from the brilliant Carina Round EP of the same name. Her song 'Do You' has become our unofficial Mystrade anthem. You can listen to the song on youtube here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c7SZ7XmyUcc
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Comments and Kudos will be cherished like the treasures they are. 
> 
> <3 Mazi and Cheshire


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